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H E C K M A T 


BY 

J. s'. LE FANU 

<1 


'pith |tWration^ 



PHILADELPHIA 
EVANS, STODD/NT & CO. 
1871 . 





X / 




• • CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I. Mortlake Hall 

II. Martha Tansey 

III. Mr. Longcluse Opens his Heart 

IV. Monsieur Lebas 

V. A Catastrophe 

VI. To Bed 

VII. Fast Friends 

VIII. Concerning a Boot 

IX. The Man without a Name 

X. TpE Royal Oak 

XI. The Telegram Arrives 

XII. Sir Reginald Arden 

XIII. On the Road...' ' 

XIV. Mr. Longcluse’s Boot finds a Temporary Asylum 

XV. Father and Son 

XVI. A Midnight Meeting 

XVII. Mr. Longcluse at IMortlake Hall 

XVIII. The Party in the Dining-Room 

XIX. In Mrs. Tansey’s Room 

XX. Mrs. Tansey’s Story 

XXI. A Walk by Moonlight 

XXII. Mr. Longcluse makes an Odd Confidence 

XXIII. The Meeting 

XXIV. Mr. Longcluse follows a Shadow 

XXV. A Tete-a-tete 

XXVI. The Garden at Mortlake 

XXVII. Winged Words 

XXVIII. Stories about Mr. Longcluse 

XXIX. The Garden-Party 

XXX. He SEES Her 

XXXI. About the GRt»uNDs 

XXXII. Under the Lime-Trees 

XXXIII. The Derby 

XXXIV. A Sharp Colloquy ’. 

XXXV. Dinner at Mortlake 

XXXVI. Mr. Longcluse sees a Lady’s Note 

XXXVII. What Alice could Say 

XXXVIII. Gentlemen in Trouble 

XXXIX. Between Friends 

XL. An Interview in the Study 

XLI. Van Appoints Himself to a Diplomatic Post 

XLII. Diplomacy 

XLIII. A Letter and Summons 

XLIV. The Reason of Alice’s Note '.. 

XliV. Collision 

XLVI. An Unknown Friend 

XLVII. By the River 

XLVIII. Sudden News 

XLIX. Promises for the Future 

L. Uncle David’s Suspicions 

LI. The Silhouette 

LII. Mr. Longcluse Employed 

LIII. The Night of the Funerai 

LIV. Among the Trees 


PAGE 


10 

11 

13 

15 

18 

21 

22 

25 

28 

31 

34 

35 
39 
42 
46 
48 
51 
53 
56 
59 
GO 
63 

65 

66 
67 
70 

TO 


79 

81 

82 

85 

86 
88 
90 

92 

93 

95 

96 

98 

99 
101 
104 
106 
107 

109 

110 
112 

115 

116 
119 


iv CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER page 

LV. Mr. Longcluse sees a Friend..? 120 

LVI. A Hope Expires 122 

LVII. Levi's Apologue 124 

LVIII. The Baron Comes to Town 126 

LIX. Two Old Friends Meet and Part 128 

LX. “Saul." 130 

LXI. A Waking Dream 132 

LXII. Love and Play 134 

LXIII. Plans 136 

LXIV. From Flower to Flower 138 

LXV. Behind the Arras 141 

LXVI. A Bubble Broken 142 

LXVII. Bond and Deed 145 

LXVIII. Sir Richard’s Resolution 147 

LXIX. The Meeting 149 

LXX. Night : 150 • 

LXXI. Measures 152 

LXXII. At the Bar of the Guy of Warwick 153 

LXXIII. A Letter .-. 156 

LXXIV. Blight and Change 158 

LX-XV. Phebe Chiffinch 160 

LXXVI. Mr. Longcluse and Uncle David 162 

LXXVII. The Catacombs 162 

LXXVIII. Resurrections 166 

LXXIX. The Two Masks 167 

LXXX. Broken 168 

LXXXI. Doppelganger 171 

LXXXII. Death of Baron Vanboeren 173 

LXXXIII. At Mortlake ’. .• 174 

LXXXIV. The Crisis 175 

LXXXV. Pursuit 178 

CONCLUSION 180 


CHECKMATE. 


CHAPTER I. 

MORTLAKE HALL. 

There stands about a mile and a half be- 
yond Islington, unless it has come down 
within the last two years, a singular and 
grand old house. It belonged to the family 
of Arden, once distinguished in the North- 
umbrian counties. About fifty acres of 
ground, rich with noble clumps and masses 
of old timber, surround it ; old-world fish- 
ponds, with swans sailing upon them, tall 
yew hedges, quincunxes, leaden fauns and 
goddesses, and other obsolete splendors sur- 
round it. It rises, tall, florid, steep-roofed, 
built of Caen stone, with a palatial flight of 
steps, and something of the grace and dig- 
nity of the genius of Inigo Jones, to whom 
it is attributed, with the shadows of ancestral 
trees and the stains of two centuries upon 
it, and a vague character of gloom and 
melancholy, not improved by some indica- 
tions not actually of decay, but of something 
too like neglect. 

It is now evening, and a dusky glow en- 
velops the scene. The setting sun throws 
its level beams, through tall drawing-room 
windows, ruddily upon the Dutch tapestry 
on the opposite walls, and not unbecomingly 
lights up the little party assembled there. 

Good-natured, fat Lady May Penrose, in 
her bonnet, sips her tea and chats agreea- 
bly. Her carriage waits outside. You will 
ask who is that extremely beautiful girl who 
sits opposite to her, her large soft gray eyes 
gazing toward the western sky with a look 
of abstraction, too forgetful for a time of her 
company, loaning upon the slender hand she 
has placed under her cheek. How silken 
and golden-tinted the dark-brown hair that 
grows so near her brows, making her fore- 
head low, and marking with its broad line 
the beautiful oval of her face ! Is there 
carmine anywhere to match her brilliant 
lips? And when, recollecting something to 
tell Lady May, she turns on a sudden, smil- 
ing, how soft and pretty the dimples, and 
how even the little row of pearls she dis- 
closes ! 

This is Alice^^^^jlqp, whose singularly 
handsome Bro^^ Richard, with some of 
her tints and outlinesYransTated into mascu- 
line beauty, stands leaning on the back of a 
prie-dieu chair, and chatting gayly. 


But who is the thin, tall man — the only 
sinister figure in the group — with one hand 
in his breast, the other on a cabinet, as he 
leans against the wall? Who is that pale, 
thin-lipped man, “ with cadaverous aspect 
and broken beak,’' whose eyes never seem to 
light up, but maintain their dismal dark- 
ness while his pale lips smile? Those eyes 
are fixed on the pretty face of Alice Arden, 
as she talks to Lady May, with a strangely 
intense gaze. His eyebrows rise a little, 
like those of Mephistopheles, toward his 
temples, with an expression that is inflex- 
ibly sarcastic, and sometimes menacing. 
His jaw is slightly underhung, a formation 
which heightens the satirical effect of his 
smile, and, by contrast, marks the depression 
of his nose. 

There was at this time in London a Mr. 
Longcluse, an agreeable man, a convenient 
man, who had got a sort of footing in many 
houses, nobody exactly knew how. He hai 
a knack of obliging people when they really 
wanted a trifling kindness, and another of 
holding fast his advantage, and, without 
seeming to push, or ever appearing to flatter, 
of maintaining the acquaintance he had once 
founded. He looked about eight-and-thirty ; 
he was really older. He was gentlemanlike, 
clever, and rich ; but not a soul of all the 
men who knew him had ever heard of him 
at school or college. About his birth, parent- 
age, and education, about hi^ “ life and ad- 
ventures,”- he was dark. 

How were his smart acquaintance made' 
Oddly, as we shall learn when we know him 
a little better. 

It was a great pity that there were some 
odd things said about this very agreeable, 
obliging, and gentlemanlike person. It was 
a pity that more was not known about him. 
The man had enemies, no doubt, and from 
the sort of reserve that enveloped him their 
opportunity arose. But were there not 
about town hundreds of men, well enough 
accepted, about whose early days no one 
cared a pin, and everything was just as 
dark? 

Now Mr. Longcluse, with his pallid face, 
his flat nose, his sarcastic eyebrows, and 
thin-lipped smile, was overlooking this little 
company, his shoulder leaning against the 
frame that separated two pieces of the pretty 
Dutch tapestry which covered the walls. 

“ By-the-by, Mr. Longcluse — you can tell 

6 


6 


CHECKMATE. 


me, for you always know everything, said 
liudy May — “ is there still any hope of that 
poor little child’s recovering — I mean the 
one in that dreadful inui-der in Thames 
Street, where the six poor little children 
were {^tabbed ? ” 

Mr. Longcluse smiled. 

“ I ’ill so glad. Lady May, I can answer 
you upon good authority I I stopped to-day 
ty ask Sir Jldwin Dudley that very question 
through his carriage window, and he said 
that he had just been to the hospital to see 
the poor little thing, and that it was likely 
to do well.” 

“ 1 ’m so glad ! And what do they say 
can have been the motive of the murder?” 

“Jealousy, they say; or else the man 
is mad.” 

“ I should not wonder. I ’m sure I hope 
he is. But they should take care to put him 
under lock and key.” 

“ So they will, rely on it; that’s a matter 
of course.” 

“ I don’t know how it is,” continued Lady 
May, who was garrulous, “ that murders 
interest people so much, who ought to be 
simply shocked at them.” 

“AVe have a murder in our family, you 
know,” said Richard Arden. 

“ That was poor Henry Arden — I /rinue,” 
she answered, lowering her voice and drop- 
ping her eyes, with a side glance at Alice, 
for she did not know how she might like to 
hear it talked of. 

“Oh, that happened when Alice was only 
five months old, I think,” said Richard ; and 
slipping into the chair beside Lady May, he 
laid his hand upon hers with a smile, and 
whispered, leaning toward her — 

“You are always so thoughtful; it is so 
nice of you ! ” 

And this short speech ended, his eyes re- 
mained fixed for some seconds, with a glow 
of tender, admiration, on those of fat Lady 
May, who simpered with effusion, and did 
not draw her hand away until she thought 
she saw Mr. Longcluse glance their way. 

It was quite true, all he said of Lady 
May. It would not be easy to find a simpler 
or more good-natured person. She was very 
rich also, and, it was said by people who love 
news and satire;^ had long been willing to 
share her gold and other chattels with hand- 
some Richard Arden, who, being but five-and- 
twenty, might very nearly have been her son. 

“ I remember that horrible affair,” said 
Mr. Longcluse, with a little shrug and shake 
of his head. “Where was I then — Paris 
or Vienna? Paris it was. I recollect it all 
now, for my purse was stolen by the very 
man Avho made his escape — Mace Was his 
name ; he was a sort of low man on the turf 
I believe; I was very young then — some- 
where about seventeen, I think.” 

“ You can’t have been more, of course,” 
said good-natured Lady May. 

“ I should like very much some time to 
hear all about it,” continued Mr. Longcluse. 


“ So you shall,” said Richard, “whenever 
you like.” 

“ Every old family lias a murder, and a 
ghost, and a beauty also, though she does 
not always live and breathe, except in the 
canvas of Lely, or Kneller, or Reynolds ; and 
they, you know, had roses and lilies to give 
away at discretion, in their paint-boxes, and 
were courtiers,” remarked Mr, Longcluse. 
“who dealt sometimes in the old-fashioned 
business of making compliments. 1 say hap- 
py the man who lives in those summers when 
the loveliness of some beautiful family cul- 
minates, and who may, at ever such a dis- 
tance, gaze and worship.” 

'i'his ugly man spoke in a low tone, and 
his voice was rather sweet. He looked as 
he spoke at Miss Arden, from whom, in- 
deed, his eyes did not often wander. 

“Very prettily said!” applauded Lady 
May, affably. 

“ I forgot to ask you. Lady May,” inquired 
Alice, cruelly, at this moment, “ how the 
pretty little Italian greyhound is, that was 
so ill —better, I hope.” 

“ Ever so much — quite well almost. I ’d 
have taken him out for a drive to-day, poor 
dear little Pepsie ! but that I thought the 
sun just a little overpowering. Did n’t you?” 

“ Perhaps a little.” 

Mr. Longcluse lowered his eyes as he 
leaned against the wall and sighed, with a 
pained smile, that even upon his plain, pal- 
lid face, was pathetic. 

Did proud Richard Arden perceive the de- 
votion of the dubious Mr. Longcluse — un- 
defined in position, in history, in origin, in 
character, in all things but in wealth? Of 
course he did, perfectly. But that wealth 
was said to be enormous. There were Jews, 
who ought to know, who said he was worth 
one million one ^undred thousand pounds, 
and that his annual income was considerably 
more than fifty thousand pounds a year. 

Was a man like that to be dismissed with- 
out inquiry ? Had he not found him good- 
natured and gentlemanlike? What about 
those stories that circulated among Jews and 
croupiers? Enemies might affect to believe 
them, and quote the old saw, “There is 
never smoke without fire ; ” but dare one of 
them utter a word of the kind aloud ? Did 
they stand the test of five minutes’ inquiry, 
such even as he had given them? Had he 
found a particle of proof, of evidence, of 
suspicion? Not a spark. What man had 
ever escaped stories who was worth forging 
a lie about ? ' ' 

Here was a man worth more than a mil- 
lion. Why, if he let him slip through his 
fingers, some duchess would pounce on him 
for her daughter. 

It was well that Longcluse was really in 
love — well, perhaps, that he did not appre- 
ciate the social omnipotence of money. 
y “AVhere is Sir Reginald at present?” 
asked Lady May. 

“ Not here, you may be sure,” answered 


C H E C K M A T E. 


7 


Richard. “ My father does not admit my 
visits, you know.’^ 

“ Really ! And is that miserable quarrel 
kept up still? 

“ Only too true. He is in France at 
present; at Vichy — ain’t it Vichy?’’ he 
said to Alice. 

But she, not choosing to talk, said simply, 
“ Yes — Vichy.” 

‘‘ 1 ’m going to take Alice into town again ; 
she has promised to stay with me a little 
longer. And I think you neglect her a lit- 
tle, don’t you ? You ought to come and see 
her a little oftener,” pleaded Lady May. 

“ I only feared I was boring you all. 
Nothing, you know, would give me half so 
much pleasure,” he answered, in alow tone. 

“Well, then, she’ll expect your visits, 
mind.” 

A little silence followed. Richard was 
vexed with his sister ; she was, he thought, 
snubbing his friend Longcluse. 

Well, when once he had spoken his mind 
and disclosed his treasures, Richard flattered 
himself he had some influence ; and did not 
Lady May swear by Mr. Longcluse ? And 
was his father, the most despotic and vio- 
lent of baronets, and very much dipt, likely 
to listen to sentimental twaddle pleading 
against fifty thousand a year? 

So, Miss Alice, if you were disposed to 
talk nonsense, it was not very likely d;o be 
listened to, and sharp and short logic might 
ensue. 

How utterly unconscious of ‘all this she 
sits there, thinking, I dare say, of quite an- 
other person ! 

Mr. Longcluse was also for a moment in 
profound ,revery; so was Richard Arden. 
The secrecy of thought is a pleasant privi- 
lege to the thinker — perhaps hardly less a 
boon to the person pondered upon. 

If each man’s forehead could become trans- 
parent, and the light of his spirit shine 
through, and the confluence of figures and 
phantoms that cross and march behind it 
become visible, how that magic -lantern 
might appal good easy people! 

And now the ladies fell to talking and 
comparing notes about their guipure lace- 
work. 

“ How charming yours looks, my dear, 
round that little table!” exclaimed Lady 
May, in a rapture. “I’m sure I hope mine 
may turn out half as pretty. I wanted to 
compare; I’m not quite sure whether it is 
exactly the same pattern.” 

Ami so on, until it was time for them to 
order their wings for town. 

The gentlemen have business of their own 
to transact, or pleasures to pursue. Mr, 
Longcluse has his trap there, to carry them 
into town when their hour comes. They 
can only put the ladies into their places, 
and bid them good-by, and exchange part- 
ing reminders and good-natured speeches. 

Rale Mr. Longcluse, as he stands on the 
steps, looks with his dark eyes after the dis- 


appearing carriage, and sighs deeply. He 
has forgotten all for the moment but one 
dream. Richard Arden wakens him, by 
laying his hand on his shoulder. 

“ Come, Longcluse, let us have a cigar In 
the billiard-room, and a talk. I have a box 
of Manillas that I think you will say are 
delicious — that is, if you like them full- 
flavored.” 


CHAPTER II. 

MARTHA TANSEY. 

“By-the-by, Longcluse,” said Richard, as 
they entered together the long tiled passage 
that leads to the billiard-room, “you like 
pictures. There is one here, bafiished to 
the housekeeper’s room, that they say is a 
Vandyck; we must have it cleaned and 
backed, and restored to its old place — but 
would you care to look at it ? ” 

“ Certainly, I should like extremely,” said 
Mr. Longcluse. 

They were now at the door of the house- 
keeper’s room, and Richard Arden knocked. 

“ Come in,” said the quavering voice of 
the old woman from within. • 

Richard Arden opened the door Mdde. 
The misty rose-colored light of the setting 
sun filled the room. 

From the wall right opposite, the pale por- 
trait of Sir Thomas Arden, who fought for 
the king during the great civil war, looked 
forth from his deep dingy frame full upon 
them, stern and melancholy ; the misty 
beams touching the softer lights of his long 
hair and the gleam of his armor so happily, 
that the figure came out from its dark back- 
ground, and seemed ready to step forth to 
meet them. 

As it happened, there was no one in the 
room but old Mrs. Tansey, the housekeeper, 
who received Richard Arden standing. 

From the threshold, Mr. Longcluse, lost 
in wonder at the noble picture, gazed on it, 
with the exclamation, “Good heaven! what 
a noble work ! I had no idea there could 
be such a thing in existence and so little 
known.” 

And he stood for a while in a rapture, 
gazing from the threshold on the portrait. 

At sound of that voice, with a vague and- 
terrible recognition, the housekeeper turned 
with a start toward the door, expecting, 
you ’d have fancied from her face, the en- 
trance of a ghost. 

There was a tremble in the voice with 
which she cried, “Lord, what’s that?” a 
tremble in the hand extended toward the 
door, and a shake also in the pale frowning 
face, from which shone her glassy eyes. 

Mr. Longcluse stepped in, and the old 
woman’s gaze became, as he did so, more 
shrinking and intense. 

When he saw her he recoiled, as a man 
might who had all but trod upon a snake ; 


8 


C IT E C K M A T E. 


and these two people pjazed at one another 
with a strange, uncertain scowl. 

In Mr. Longcluse’s case, this dismal caprice 
of countenance did not last beyond a second 
or two. Richard Arden, as he turned his 
eyes from the picture to say a word to his 
companion, saAv it for a moment, and it 
faded from his features — saw it, and the 
darkened countenance of the old house- 
keeper, with a momentary shock. 

He glanced from one to the other quickly, 
with a look of unconscious surprise. That 
look instantly recalled Mr. Longcluse, who, 
laying his hand on Richard Arden’s arm, 
said, with a laugh — 

“ I do believe I ’m the most nervous man 
in the world.” 

“ You don’t find the room too hot? ” said 
Richard, inwardly ruminating upon the 
strange looks he had just seen exchanged. 
“ Mrs. Tansey keeps a fire all the year 
round — don’t you, Martha ? ” 


He walked over and raised the lower end 
of the frame gently from the wall. 

“ Yes, just as you said, it wants to be 
backed. That portrait would not stand a 
shake, I can tell you. The canvas is per- 
fectly rotten, and the paint — if you stand 
here you ’ll see — is ready to flake off. It is 
an awful pity. You shouldn’t leave it in 
such danger.” 

“ No,” said Richard, who was looking at 
the old woman. “ I don’t think Martha’s 
well — will you excuse me for a moment? ” 

And he was at the housekeeper’s side. 

“ What’s the matter, Martha?” he said, 
kindly. “ Are you ill ? ” 

“Very bad, sir. I beg your pardon for 
sitting, but I could not help ; and the gen- 
tleman will excuse me.” 

“Of course — but what’s the matter?” 
said Richard. 

“ A sudden fright like, sir. I ’m all over 
on a tremble,” she quavered. 



Martha did not answer, nor seem to hear; 
she pressed her lean hand, instead, to her 
heart, and drew back to a sofa and sat down, 
muttering, “ My God, lighten our darkness, 
we beseech thee ! ” and she looked as if she 
were on the point of fainting. 

“ That is a true Vandyck,” said Mr. Long- 
cluse, who was now again looking stead- 
fastly at the picture. “ It deserves to rank 
among his finest portraits. I have never 
seen anything of his more forcible. You 
really ought not to have it here, and in this 
state.” 


“ See how ^ exquisitely that hand is 
painted,” continued Mr. Longcluse, pursu- 
ing his criticism, “and the art with which 
the lights are managed. It is a wonderful 
picture. It makes one positively angry to 
see it in that state, and anywhere but in the 
most conspicuous and honorable position. 
If I owned that picture, I should neVer be 
tired showing it. I should have it where 
every one who came into my house should 
see it ; and I should watch every crack and 
blur on its surface, as I should the symp- 
toms of a dying child, or the looks of the 


CHECKMATE. 


9 


♦ 

mistress of my heart. Now just look at this. 
Where is he? OhP^ 

“ I heg your pardon, a thousand times, 
but I find my old friend Martha feels a 
little faint and ill,^^ said Richard. 

“ Dear me I I hope she 's better, said 
Mr. Longcluse, approachipg with solicitude. 
“Can I be of any use? Shall 1 touch the 
bell?'^ 

“ I ^m better, sir, I thank you ; I ’m much 
better,^^ said the old woman. “It won’t 
signify nothing, only — ” She was look- 
ing hard again at Mr. Longcluse, who now 
seemed perfectly at his ease, and showed in 
his countenance nothing but the commiser- 
ation befitting the occasion. “ A sort of a 
weakness — a fright like — and I can’t think, 
quite, what came over me,” 

“ Don’t you think a glass of wdne might 
do her good ? ” asked Mr. Longcluse. 

“Thanks, sir, I don’t drink it. Oh, 
lighten our darkness, we beseech thee ! 
Good Lord, a’ mercy on us! I take them 
drops, hartshorn and valerian, on a little 
water, when I feel nervous like. I don’t 
know when I was took wi’ t’ creepin’s 
before.” 

“ You look better,” said Richard. 

“ I ’m quite right again, sir,” she said, 
with a sigh. She had taken her “drops,” 
and seemed restored. 

“ Had n’t you better have one of the maids 
with you? I’m going now ; I ’ll send some 
one,” he said. “ You must get all right, 
Martha. It pains me to see you ill. You ’re 
a very old friend, remember. You must be 
all right again ; and, if you like, we ’ll have 
the doctor out, from town.” 

He said this holding her thin old hand 
very kindly, for he was by no means with- 
out good-nature. 

So, sending the promised attendant, he 
and Longcluse proceeded to the billiard- 
room, where, having got the lamps lighted, 
they began to enjoy their smoke. 

Each, I fancy, was thinking of the little 
incident in the housekeeper’s room. There 
was a long silence. 

“ Poor old Tansey ! She looked awTully 
ill,” said Richard Arden, at last. 

“By Jove! she did. Is that her name? 
She rather frightened me,” said Mr. Long- 
cluse. “I thought we had stumbled on a 
mad woman — she stared so. Has she ever 
had any kind of fit, poor thing?” 

“ No. She grumbles a good deal, but I 
really think she ’s a healthy old woman 
enough. She says she was frightened.” 

“ We came in too suddenly, perhaps?” 

“ No, that was n’t it, for I knocked first,” 
said Arden. 

“ Ah, yes, so you did. I only know she 
frightened me. I really thought she was 
out of her mind, and that she was going to 
stick me with a knife, perhaps,” said Mr. 
Longcluse, with a little laugh and a shrug. 

Arden laughed, and puffed away at his 
cigar till he had it in a glow again. 


Was tins explanation of what he had seen 
in Longcluse’s countenance — a picture pre- 
sented but for a fraction of a second, but 
thenceforward ineffaceable — quite satisfac- 
tory ? 

In a short time Mr. Longcluse asked 
whether he could have a little brandy and 
water, which accordingly was furnished. In 
his first glass there was a great deal of bran- 
dy, and very little water indeed; and his 
second, sipped more at his leisure, was but 
little more diluted. A very faint flush tinged 
his pallid cheeks. 

Richard Arden was thinking of his own 
debts and ill-luck, and at last he said — 

“ I wonder what the art of getting on in 
the world is. Is it communicable? or is it 
no art at all, but a simple run of luck? ” 

Mr. Longcluse smiled scornfully. “ There 
are men who have immense faith in them- 
selves,” said he, “who have indomitable 
will, and who are provided with craft and 
pliancy for any situation. Those men are 
giants from the first to the last hour of 
action, unless, as happened to Napoleon, 
success enervates them. In the cradle, they 
strangle serpents ; blind, they pull down 
palaces ; old as Dandolo, they burn fleets and 
capture cities. It is only when they have 
taken to bragging that thie lues Napoleonica 
has set in. Now I have been, in a sense, a 
successful man — I am worth some money.. 
If I were the sort of man I describe, I 
should be worth, if I cared for it, ten time:^ 
what I have in as many yaars. But I don’t 
care to confess I made my money by flukes. 
If, having no tenderness, you have two i 
attributes — profound cunning and perfect] 
audacity — nothing can keep you back./ 
I’m a common-place man, I say; but 1 know 
what constitutes power. Life is a battle, 
and the general’s qualities win.” 

“I have not got the general’s qualities. I 
think; and I knoAv I haven’t luck,” said 
Arden ; “ so for my part I may as well drift, 
with as little trouble as may be, wherever the 
current drives. Happiness is not for all men.” 

“Happiness is f)r no man,” said Mr. 
Longcluse. And a little silence followed. 

“ Now suppose a fellow has. got more 
money than ever he dreamed of, ” he 
resumed, “and finds money, after all, not 
quite what he fiincied, and that he has come 
to long for a prize quite distinct and infin- 
itely more precious ; so that he finds, at last, 
that he never can be happy for an hour 
without it, and yet, for all his longing and 
his pains, sees it as unattainable as that 
star.” (He pointed to a planet that shone 
down through the skylight.) “ Is that man 
happy? He carries with him, go where he 
may, an aching heart, the pangs of jealousy 
and despair, and the longing of the damned 
for Paradise. That is my miserable case.” 

Richard Arden laughed, as he lighted his 
second cigar. 

“Well, if that’s your case, you can’t be 
one of those giants you described just now. 


10 


CIIECKM AJE. 


Women are not the ohduratc and cruel crea- 
tures you 1‘ancy. Th(‘y are proud, and vain, 
and unforgiving; but the misery and the 
perseverance of a lover constitute a worship 
that first flatters and then wins them. Re- 
member this, a woman finds it very hard to 
give up a worshipper, except for another. 
Now why should you despair? You are a 
gentleman, you are a clever fellow, an agree- 
able fellow ; you are what is accounted a 
young, man still, and you can make your 
wife rich. They all 'like that. It is not 
avarice, but pride, t don’t know the young 
lady, but I see no good reason why you 
should fail.” 

“I wish, Arden. I dare tell you all; but 
some day I’ll tell you more.” 

“The only thing is — You’ll not mind 
my telling you, as you have been so frank 
with me ? ” 

“ Pray, say whatever you think. I shall 
be ever so much obliged. I forget so many 
things about English manners and ways of 
thinking — I have lived so very much abroad. 
Should I be put up fi)r a club ? ” 

“Well, I should not mind a club just yet, 
till you know more people — quite time 
enough. But you must manage better. 
Why should those Jew fellows and other 
people, who don’t hold, and never can, a 
position the least like yours, be among your 
acquaintance? You must make it a rule to 
drop all objectionable persons, and know 
none but good people. Of course, when you 
are strong enough, it doesn’t so much matter, 
provided you keep them at arm’s length. But 
you passed your younger days abroad, as you 
say, and not being yet so well known here, 
you will have to be particular, don’t you 
see? A man is so much judged by his ac- 
quaintances; and, in fact, it is essential.” 

“ A thousand thanks for any hints that 
strike you,” said Longcluse, good-humoredly. 

“They sound frivolous; but these trifles 
have immense weight with women,” said 
Arden. “ By Jove!” he added, glancing at 
his watch, “we shall be late. Your trap is 
at the door — suppose we go? ” 


CHAPTER III. 

MR. LONGCLUSE OPENS HIS HEART. 

The old housekeeper had drawn near her 
window, and stood close to the pane, through 
which she looked out upon the star-lit night. 
The stars shine down over the foliage of 
huge old trees. Dim as shadows stand the 
horse and tax-cart that await Mr. Longcluse 
and Richard Arden, who now at length ap- 
pear. The groom fixes the lamps, one of which 
shines full on Mr. Longcluse’s peculiar face. 

“Ay — the voice; I could a’ sworn to 
that,” she muttered. “ It went through me 
like a scythe. But that’s a strange face ; 
and yet there’s summat in it, just a hint 


like to call my thoughts out a-seeking, up 
and down, and to and fro ; and ’t will not 
let me rest until I come, to find the truth. 
Mace? No, no. Langly ? Not he. Yet 
’t was summat that nir/ht, I think — summat 
awful. And who teas there? No one. 
Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, 0 
Lord ! for my hea*rt is sore troubled,” 

Up jumped the groom. Mr. Longcluse 
had the reins in his hand, and he and his 
companion passed swiftly by the window, 
and the flash, of the lamps crossed the 
panelled walls of the housekeeper’s room. 
The light danced wildly from corner to 
corner of the wainscot, accompanied by the 
shadows of two geraniums in bow-pots on the 
window-stool. Tfie lamps flew by, and she 
still stood there, with the palsied shake of 
her head and hand, looking out into the 
darkness, in rumination. 

Arden and Longcluse glided through the 
night-air in silence, under the mighty old 
trees that had witnessed generations of Ar- 
dens, down the darker, narrow roads, and 
by the faded old inn, once famous in those 
regions as the “Guy of Warwick,” repre- 
senting still on its board, in tarnished gold 
and colors, that redoubted champion, with a 
boar’s head on the point of his sword, and a 
grotesque lion winding itself fawningly about 
his horse’s legs. 

As they passed swiftly along this smooth 
and deserted road, Longcluse spoke. Aperit 
prcecordia vimim. In his brandy and water 
he had not spared alcohol, and the quantity 
was considerable. 

“ I have lots of money, Arden, and I can 
talk to people, as you say,” he suddenly 
said, as if Richard Arden had spoken but a 
moment before ; “ but, on the whole, is there 
on earth a more miserable dog than I ? 
There are things that trouble me that would 
make you laugh ; there are others that 
would, if I dare tell them, make you sigh. 
Soon I shall be able ; soon you shall know 
all. I’m not a bad fellow. I know how to 
give away money, and, what is harder to 
bestow on others, my time and labor. But 
who to look at me would believe it. I ’m 
not a worse fellow than Penruddpek. I 
can cry for pity and do a kind act, like 
him ; but I look in my glass, and I also feel, 
like him, ‘the mark of Cain’ is on me — 
cruelty in my face. Why should Nature 
write on some men’s faces such libels on 
their characters? Then here’s another' 
thing to make you laugh — a handsome 
fellow, to whom beauty belongs, I say, by 
right of birth — it would make me laugh 
also if I were not, as I am, forced every 
hour I live to count up, in agonies of hope 
and terror, my chances in that enterprise in 
which all my happiness for life is staked so 
wildly. Common ugliness does not matter, 
it is got over. But such a face as mine ! 
Come, come ! you are too good-natured to 
say. I ’m not asking for consolation ; I am 
only summing up m}'^ curses.” 


i 


CHECKMATE. 


11 


“You make too much of these. Lady 
May thinks your face, she says, very inter- 
esting — upon my honor, she does.'’ 

“ Oh, Heaven I " exclaimed Mr. Longcluse, 
with a shrug and a laugh. 

“ And, what is more to the purpose (will 
you forgive my reporting all this — you won’t 
mind?), some young lady friends of hers who 
were by said, I assure you, that you had so 
much expression, ;ind that your features 
were extremely refined.” 

“ It won’t do, Arden ; you are too good- 
natured,” said he, laughing more bitterly. 

“ I should much rather be as I am, if I 
were you, than be gifted with vulgar beauty 
— plump, pink and white, with black, beady 
eyes, and all that,” said Arden. 

“ But the heaviest curse upon me is that 
which, perhaps, you do not suspect — the 
curse of — secrecy.” 

“ Oh, really ! ” said Arden, laughing, as 
if he had thought up to then that Mr. Long- 
cluse’s history was as well known as that 
of the Emperor Napoleon. 

“ I don’t say that I shall come out like 
the enchanted hero in a fairy tale, and 
change in a moment from a beast into a 
prince ; but I am something better than I 
seem. In a short time, if yoii care to.be 
bored with it, I shall have a great deal to 
tell you.” 

There followed here a silence of two or 
three minutes, and then, on a sudden, 
pathetically, Mr. Longcluse broke forth — • 

“ What has a fellow like me to do with 
love ? and less than beloved, can I ever be 
happy? I know something of the world — 
not of this London world, where I live less 
than I seem to do, and into which I came 
too late ever to understand it thoroughly — I 
know something of a greater world, and 
human nature is the same everywhere. 
You talk of a girl’s pride inducing her to 
marry a man for the sake of his riches. 
Could I possess my beloved on those terms ? 
I would rather place a pistol in my mouth, 
and blow my skull off. Arden, I’m unhappy ; 
I’m^the most miserable dog alive.” 

“Come, Longcluse, that’s all nonsense. 
Beauty is no advantage to a man. The 
being agreeable is an immense one. But 
success is what women worship, and if, in 
addition to that, you possess wealth — not, 
as I said, that they are sordid, but only 
vain-glorious — you become very nearly irre- 
sistible. Now you are agreeable, successful, 
and wealthy — you must see what follows.” 

“ I’m out of spirits,” said Longcluse, and 
relapsed into silence, with a great sigh. 

By this time they had got within the 
lamps, and were threading streets, and rap- 
idly approaching their destination. Five 
minutes more, and these gentlemen had 
entered a vast room, in the centre of which 
stood a billiard-table, with benches rising 
tier above tier to the walls, and a gallery 
running round the building above them, 
brilliautly lighted, as such places are, and 


already crowded with all kinds of people. 
There is going to be a great match of a 
“thousand up” played between Bill Hood 
and Bob Markham. The betting has been 
unusually high ; it is still going on. The 
play won’t begin for nearly half an hour. 
The “admirers of the game” have mustered 
in great force and variety. There are young 
peers, with sixty thousand a year, and there 
are gentlemen who live' by their billiards. 
There are, for once and away, grave per- 
sons, bankers, and counsel learned in the 
law; there are Jews and a sprinkling of 
foreigners ; and there are members of Par- 
liament and members of the swell mob. 

Mr. Longcluse has a good, deal to think 
about this night. He is out of spirits. 
Richal'd j\rden is no longer with him, 
having picked up a friend or two in the 
room. 

Longcluse, with folded arms, and his 
shoulders against the wall, is in a profound 
revery, his dark eyes for the time lowered to 
the floor, beside the point of his French boot. 

There unfold themselves beneath him pic- 
ture after picture, the scenes of many a year 
ago. 

Looking down, there creeps over him an 
old horrt)r, a supernatural disgust, and he 
sees in the dark a pair of wide, white eyes, 
staring up at him in an agony of terror, an.d 
a shrill yell, piercing a distance of many 
years, makes him shake his ears with a sud- 
den chill. 

Is this the witches’ Sabbath of our pale 
Mephistopheles — his night of goblins ? 

He raised his eyes, and they met those of 
a person whom he had not seen for a very 
long time — a third part of his whole life. 
The two pairs of eyes, at nearly half across 
the room, have met, and for a moment fixed. 
The stranger smiles and nods. Mr. Long- 
cluse does neither. He affects now to be 
looking over the stranger’s shoulder, at some 
more distant object. There is a strange chill 
and commotion at his heart. 


CHAPTER IV. 

MONSIEUR LEBAS. 

Mr. Longcluse leaned still with folded 
arms, and his shoulder to the wall. The 
stranger, smiling and fussy, was making 
his way to him. 

There is nothing in this man’s appearance 
to associate him with tragic incident or 
emotion of any kind. He is plainly a 
foreigner. He is short, fat, middle-aged, 
with a round fat face, radiant with good- 
humor and good-natured enjoyment. His 
dress is cut in the somewhat grotesque style 
of a low French tailor. It is not very new, 
and has some spots of grease upon it. Mr. 
Longcluse perceives that he is now making 
his way toward him. 


12 


CHECKMATE. 


Lonisjcluse for a moment thought of mak- 
ing his escape by the door which was close 
to him ; but he reflected, “ He is about the 
most innocent and good-natured soul on 
earth, and why should I seem to avoid him? 
Better, if he 's looking for me, to let him 
find me, and say his say.^^ 

So Longcluse looked another way, his 
arms still folded, and his shoulder against 
the wall, as before. 

“Ah, ha! monsieur is thinking profound- 
ly,^^ said a gay voice, in French. “ Ah, ha, 
ha, ha! you are surprised, sir, to see me 
here. So am I, my faith ! I saw you. I 
never forget a face.’^ 

“ Nor a friend, Lebas. Who could have 
imagined anything to bring you to London?’^ 
answered Longcluse, in the same language, 
shaking him warmly by the hand, and smil- 
ing down on the little,man. “ I shall never 
forget your kindness. I think I should have 
died in that illness but for you. How can 
I ever thank you half enough 

“ And the grand secret — the political dif- 
ficulty — monsieur found it well evaded,’’ 
he said, mysteriously touching his upper lip 
with two fingers. 

“ Not all quiet yet. I suppose you thought 
I was in Vienna ? ” 

“ Eh ? well, yes — so I did,” answered 
Lebas, with a shrug. “ But perhaps you 
think this place safer? ” 

“Hush! You’ll come to me to-morrow. 
I ’ll tell you where to find me before we part, 
and you ’ll bring your portmanteau and stay 
with me while you remain in London, and 
the longer the better.” 

“ Monsieur is too kind, a great deal ; but 
I am staying for my visit to London with 
my brother-in-law, Gabriel Laroque, the 
watch-maker. He lives on the Hill of Lud- 
gate, and he would be ofiended if I were to 
reside anywhere but in his house while I 
stay. But if monsieur wil be so good as to 
permit me to call ” 

“ You must come and dine with me to- 
morrow ; I have a box for the opera. You 
love music, or you are not the Pierre Lebas 
whom I remember sitting with his violin at 
an open window. So come early, come 
before six ; I have ever so much to ask you. 
And what has brought you to London? ” 

“ A very little business and a great deal 
of pleasure ; but all in a week,” said the 
little man, with a shrug and a hearty laugh. 
“ I have come over here about some little 
things like that.” He smiled archly as he 
produced from his waistcoat-pocket a little 
flat box with a glass top, and shook some- 
thing in it. “ Commerce, you see. I have 
to see two or three more of the London peo- 
ple, and then my business will have termin- 
ated, and nothing remain for the rest of the 
week but pleasure — ha, ha!” 

“ You left all at home well, I hope — chil- 
dren?” He was going to say “madame,” 
but a good many years had passed. 

“ I have seven children. Monsieur will 


remember two. Three are by my first mar- 
riage, four by my second, and all enjoy of 
the very best health. Three are very young 
— three, two, one year old ; and they say a 
fourth is not impossible very soon,” he 
added, archly. 

Longcluse laughed kindly, and laid his 
hand upon his shoulder. 

“ You must take charge of a little present 
for each from me, and one for madame. And 
the old business still flourishes?” 

“ A thousand thanks ! yes, the business is 
the same — the file, the chisel, and knife.” 
And he made a corresponding movement of 
his hand as he mentioned each instrument. 

said Longcluse, smiling, so 
that no one who did not hear him would 
have supposed there was so much cautious 
emphasis in the word. “ My good friend, 
remember there are details we talk of, you 
and I together, that are not to be mentioned 
so suitably in a place like this,” and he 
pressed his hand on his wrist, .and shook it 
gently. 

“ A thousand pardons ! I am, I know, too 
careless, and let my tongue too often run 
before my caution. My wife, she says, ‘ You 
can’t wash your shirt but you must tell the 
world.’ It is my weakness, truly. She is a 
woman of extraordinary penetration.” 

Mr. Longcluse glanced from the corners 
of his eyes about the room. Perhaps he 
wished to ascertain whether his talk with 
this man, whom you would have taken to be' 
a little above the level of a French me- 
chanic, had excited any one’s attention. But 
there was nothing to make him think so. 

“ Now, Pierre, my friend, you must win 
some money upon this match — do you see ? 
And you won’t deny me the pleasure of put- 
ting down your stake for you ; and, if you 
win, you shall buy something pretty for 
madame — and, win or lose, I shall think it 
friendly of you after so many years, and 
like you the better.” 

“ Monsieur is too good,” he said, with 
effusion. 

“Now look. Do you ^ee that fat Jew over 
there on the front bench — you can’t mistake 
him — with the velvet waistcoat all in wrin- 
kles, and the enormous lips, who talkes to 
every second person that passes ? ” 

“ I see perfectly, monsieur.” ^ 

“ He is betting three to one on Markham. 
You must take his offer and back Hood. I’m 
told he ’?? win. Here are ten pounds, you 
may as well make them thirty. Don’t say 
a word. Our English custom is to tip, as 
we say, our friends’ sons at school, and to * 
make presents to everybody, as often as we 
like. Now there — not a word.” 

He quietly slipped into his hand a lit- 
tle rouleau of ten pounds in gold. 

“ If you say one word, you wound me,” he 
continued. “ But, good Heaven ! my dear 
friend, have n’t you a breast-pocket? ” 

“ No, monsieur ; but this is quite safe. I 
was paid, only five minutes before I came 


CHECKMATE. 


13 


here, fifteen pounds in gold, a chequfe of 
forty-four pounds, and 

“ Be silent. You may be overheard. Speak 
here in a very low tone, as I do. And do 
you mean to tell me that you carry all that 
money in your coat pocket ? 

“But in a pocket-book, monsieur.’^ 

“ All the more convenient for the chevalier 
d’ industrie” said Longcluse. “ Stop. Pray 
don’t produce it ; your fate is, perhaps, 
sealed if you do. There are gentlemen in 
this room who would hustle and rob you in 
the crowd as you get out ; or, failing that, 
who, seeing that you are a stranger, would 
follow and murder you in the streets for the 
sake of a twentieth part of that sum.” 

“ Gabriel thought there would be none 
here but men distinguished,” said Lebas, in 
some consternation. 

“ Distinguished by the special attention 
of the police, some of them,” said Longcluse. 

“ Hd ! that is very true,” said Monsieur 
Lebas — “ very true, I am sure of it. See 
you that man there, monsieur? Regard him 
for a moment. The tall man, who leans 
with his shoulder to the metal pillar of the 
gallery. My faith! he has observed my steps 
and followed me. I thought he was a spy. 
But my friend he says, ‘ N(*, that is a man 
of bad character, dismissed for bad prac- 
tices from the police.’ Aha 1 he has watched 
me sideways with the corner of his eye. I 
will watch him with the corner of mine — 
ha, ha 1 ” 

“ It proves, at all events, Lebas, that there 
are people here other than gentlemen and 
men of honest lives,” said Longcluse. 

“ But,” said Lebas, brightening a little, 
“ I have this weapen,” producing a dagger 
from the same pocket. 

“Put it back this instant. Worse and 
worse, my good friend. Don’t you know 
that just now there is a police activity re- 
specting foreigners, and that two have been 
arrested only yesterday on no charge but 
that of having weapons upon their persons? 
I don’t know what the devil you had best 
do.” 

“ I can return to the Hill of Ludgate-p-eh ?” 

“Pity to lose the game; they won’t let 
you back again,” said Longcluse. 

“What shall I do?” said Lebas, keeping 
his hand now in his pocket on his treasure. 

Longcluse rubbed the tip of his finger a 
little over his eyebrow, thinking. 

“ Listen to me,” said Longcluse, suddenly. 
“Is your brother-in-law here?’’ 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Well, you have some London friend in 
the room, have n’t you ?” 

“One — yes.” 

“ Only be sure he is one whom you can 
trust, and who has a safe pocket.” 

“Oh, yes, monsieur, entirely! and I saw 
him place his purse so,” he said, touching 
his coat, over his heart, with his fingers. 

“Well, now, you can’t manage it here, 
under the gaze of the people ; but — where is 


best? Yes — j’^ou see those two doors at oppo- 
site sides in the wall, at the far end of the 
room ? They open into two parallel corri- 
dors leading to the hall, and a little way 
down there is a cross passage, in the middle 
of which is a door opening into a smoking- 
room. That room will be deserted now', and 
there, unseen, you can place your money and 
dagger in his charge.” 

“ Ah, thank you a hundred thousand times, 
monsieur !” answered Lebas. “ I shall be 
writing to the Baron van Boeren to-morrow, 
and I w'ill tell him I have met monsieur.” 

“How is the baron?” asked Longcluse. 

“ Very well. Beginning to be not so young, 
you know, and thinking of retiring. I will 
tell him his work has succeeded. If he de- 
molishes, he also 'secures. If he sometimes 
sheds blood ” 

“ Hush! ” whispered Longcluse, sternly. 

“ There is no one,” murmured little Lebas, 
looking round, but dropping his voice to a 
whisper. “lie also saves many a neck from 
the blade of the headsman.” 

Longcluse frowned, a little embarrassed. 
Lebas smiled archly. In 'a moment Long- 
cluse’s impatient frown broke into a myste- 
rious smile that responded. 

“May I say one word more, and make one 
request of monsieur, which I hope he will 
not think very impertinent?” asked Mon- 
sieur Lebas, who had just been on the point 
of taking his leave. 

“ It may n’t be in my power to grant it ; 
but you can’t be what you say — I am too 
much obliged to you — so speak quite freely,” 
said Longcluse. 

So they talked a little more, and parted, 
and Monsieur Lebas w’ent on his way. 


CHAPTER V. 

A CATASTROPHE. 

The play has commenced. Longcluse, who 
likes and understands the game, sitting be- 
side Richard Arden, is all eye. He is in- 
tensely eager and delighted. He joins 
modestly in the clapping that now and then 
follows a stroke of extraordinary brilliancy. 
Now and then he whispers a criticism in 
Arden’s ear. 

There are many vicissitudes in the game. 
The players have entered on the third hun- 
dred, and still “ doubtful it stood.” 

The excitement is extraordinary. The 
assembly is as hushed as if it were listening 
to a sermon, and, I am afraid, more atten- 
tive. 

Now, on a sudden, Hood scores a hundred 
and sixty-eight points in a single break. A 
burst of prolonged applause follows, and, 
during the clapping, in which he had at first 
joined, Longcluse says to Arden — 

“ I can’t tell you how that run of Hood's 
delights me. I saw a poor little friend of 


14 


CHECKMATE. 


mine here before the play began — I had not 
seen him since I was little more than a boy 
— a Frenchman, a good-natured little soul, 
and I advised him to back Hood, and I have 
been trembling up to this moment. But I 
think he's safe now to win. Markham can't 
score this time. If he's in ‘ Queer Street,' 

• as they whisper round the room, you'll find 
lie'll either give a simple miss, or put him- 
self into the pocket." 

“Well, I'm sure I hope your friend will 
win, because it will put three hundred and 
eighty pounds into my pocket," said Kichard 
Arden. 

And now silence was called, and the build- 
ing became, in a moment, hushed as a cathe- 
dral before the anthem ; and Markham 
knocked his own ball . into the pocket, as 
Longcluse had predicted. 

On sped the game, and at last Hood scbred 
a thousand, and won the match, greeted by 
an uproar of applause that, now being no 
longer restrained, lasted for nearly five 
minutes. 

The assemblage had by this time descend- 
ed from the' benches, and crowded the floor 
in clusters, discussing the play or settling 
bets. The people in the gallery were pour- 
ing down by the four staircases, and add- 
ing to the crowd and buzz. 

Suddenly there is a sort of excitement 
perceptible of a new kind — a gathering and 
pressure of men about one of the doors at 
the far corners of the room. Men are look- 
ing back and beckoning to their companions ; 
others are shouldering forward as strenu- 
ously as they can. What is it — any dispute 
about the score ? — a pair of men boxing in 
the passage? “No suspicion of fire?" the 
men at this near end exclaim, and sniff over 
their shoulders, and look about them, and 
move toward the point where the crowd is 
thickening, not knowing what to make of 
the matter. But soon there runs a rumor 
about the room — “A man has just been 
found murdered in a room outside," and the 
croAvd now press forward more energetically 
to the point of attraction. 

In the cross passage which connects the 
two corridors, as Mr. Longcluse described, 
there is an awful crush, and next to no light. 
A single jet of gas burns in the smoking- 
room, where the pressure of the cr^wd is not 
quite so much felt. There are two police- 
men in that chamber, in the ordinary uni- 
form of the force, and three detectives in 
plain clothes, one supporting a corpse al- 
ready stiffening, in a sitting posture, as it 
was found, in a far angle of the room, on 
the bench to your left as you look in. All 
the people are looking up the room. You 
can see nothing but hats, and backs of heads, 
and shoulders, and collars of coats. There 
is<a ceaseless buzz and clack of talk and con- 
jecture. Even the policemen are looking, as 
the rest do, at the body. The man who has 
mounted on the chair near the door, with the 
other beside him, who has one foot on the 


rung and another on the seat, and an arm 
round the first gentleman's neck, although 
he has not the honor of his acquaintance, to 
support himself, can see, over the others, 
heads, the one silent face which looks back 
toward the door, upon so many gaping, star- 
ing, and gabbling ones. The light is faint. It 
has occurred to no one to light the gas-lamps 
in the centre. But that forlorn face is distinct 
enough. Fi.xed and earthy it is, with the 
chin a little raised. The eyes are wide open, 
Avith a deep and awful gaze ; the mouth 
slightly distorted with what the doctors call 
a “ convulsive smile," which shows the teeth 
a little, and has an odd, wincing look. 

As I live, it is the little Frenchman, 
Pierre Lebas, who Avas talking so gayly to- 
night with Mr. Longcluse ! 

The ebony haft of a dagger, sticking 
straight out, shoAvs .AA'here the hand of the 
assassin planted the last stab of four, 
through his black satin waistcoat, embroid- 
ered with green leaves, red strawberries, 
and yellow flowers, which, I suppose, was 
one of the finest articles in the little Avard- 
robe that Madame Lebas packed up for his 
holiday. It is not worth much now. It has 
four distinct cuts, as I have said, on the left 
side, right through it, and is soaked in blood. 

His pockets have been nifled. The police 
have found nothing in them but a red pocket- , 
handkerchief and a papier-mache snuff-box. 

If that dumb mouth could speak but fifty . 
words, what a world of conjecture it would 
end, and poor Lebas' story would be listened 
to as neA-er was story of his before ! 

A policeman now takes his place at the 
door to prevent further pressiTre. No new 
comers will be admitted, except as others go 
out. Those outside are asking questions of 
those within, and transmitting, over their 
shoulders, particulars, eagerly repeated. 

On a sudden there is a subsidence of the 
buzz and gabble Avithin, and one voice, 
speaking almost at the pitch of a shriek, is 
heard declaiming. 

White as a sheet, Mr. Longcluse, in high 
excitement, is haranguing in the smoking- 
room, mounted on a table. 

“ I say," he cried, “ gentlemen, excuse 
me. There are so many together here, so 
many knoAvn to be Avealthy, it is an oppor- 
tunity for a word. Things are coming to a 
pretty pass — garotters in our streets and 
assassins in our houses of entertainment ! 
Here is a poor little felloAv — look at him — 
here to-night to see the game, perfectly Avell 
and happy, murdered by some miscreant for 
the sake of the money he had about him. 
It might have been the fate of any one of us. 

I spoke to him to-night. I had not seen him 
since I was a boy almost. SeAcn children 
and a wife, he told me, dependent on him. 

I say there are tAvo things wanted — first, a 
reAvard of such magnitude as will induce 
exertion. I promise, for my own share, to 
put down double the amount promised by 
the highest subscriber. Secondly, something 


CHECKMxVTE. 


15 



should be done for the family he has left, in 
proportion to the loss they have sustained. 
Upon this point I shall make inquiry myself. 
But this is plain, the danger and scandal 
have attained a pitch at which none of us 
who cares to walk the streets at night, or at 
any time to look in upon amusements like 
that we attended in this building, this even- 
ing, can. permit them longer to stand. There 
is a fatal defect somewhere. Are our police 
awake and active? Very possibly; but if 
so, the force is not adequate. I say this fright- 
ful scandal must be abated if, as citizens of 
London, we desire to maintain our reputa- 
tion for common sense and energy.'^ 

There was a tall, thin fellow, shabbily 
dressed, standing nearly behind the door, 
with a long neck, and a flat, mean face, 
slightly pitted with small-pox, rather pallid, 
who was smiling lazily, with half-closed 
eyes, as Mr. Longcluse dedal med ; and when 
he alluded pointedly to the inadequacy of 
the police this man’s amusement improved, 
and he winked pleasantly at the clbck which 
he was consulting at the moment with the 
corner of his eye. 

And now a doctor arrived, and Gabriel 
Laroque the watchmaker, and more police, 
with an inspector. Laroque faints when 
he sees his murdered friend. Kecovered 
after a time, he identifies the body, identi- 
fies the dagger also as the property of poor 
Lebas. 

The police take the matter now quite into 
their hands, and clear the room. 


CHAPTER VI. 

TO BED. 

Mr. Longcluse jumped into a cab, and 
told the man to drive to his house in Bolton 
Street, Piccadilly. lie rolled his coat about 
him with a kind of violence, and threw him- 
self into a corner. Then, as it were, in 
furore, and with a stamp on the floor, he 
pitched himself into the other corner. 

“I’ve seen to-night what I never thought 
I should see. What devil possessed me to 
tell him to go into that smoking-room ? ” he 
muttered. “ What a dingy room it is! It 
has seized my brain somehow. Am I get- 
ting into a fever, or going mad, or what ? 
That cursed dark smoking-room ! I shall 
never get out of it. It is like a cell in the 
centre of the earth. I ’m built round and 
roundel! it. The moment I begin to think 
I ’m in it. The moment I close my eyes, its 
four stifling walls are round me. There is 
no way out of it. It is like hell.” 

The wind had come round to the south, 
and a soft rain was pattering on the win- 
dows. He stopped the cab somewhere near 
St. James’s Street, and got out. It was 
late — it was just past two o’clock, and the 
streets were quiet. Wonderfully still was 
the great city at this hour, and the descent 
of the rain went on with a sound like a pro- 
longed “ hush ” all round. 

He paid the man, and stood for awhile on 
the curbstone, looking up and down the 


16 


CHECKMATE. 


street under the downpour of the rain. You 
might have taken him for a man who knew 
not where to lay his head that night. 

lie took off his hat, and let the refreshing 
rain saturate his hair, and stream down his 
forehead and temples. 

“ Your cab^s rather stuffy and very hot, 
ain’t it? Standing half the day with the 
glass in the sun, I dare say,” said he to the 
man, who was fumbling in his pockets, and 
pretending a difficulty about finding change. 

“ See, never mind, if you have n’t got 
change ; I’ll go on. Heavier rain than I 
fancied ; very pleasant, though. When did 
the rain begin ? ” asked Mr. Longcluse, who 
seemed in no hurry to get back again. 

“ A trifle past ten, sir.” 

“ I say, your horse’s knees are a bit 
broken, ain’t they? Never mind, I don’t 
care. He can pull you and me to Bolton 
Street, I dare say.” 

“ Will you please to get in, sir ? ” inquired 
the cabman. 

Mr. Longcluse nodded, frowning and 
thinking of something else; the rain still 
descending on his bare head, his hat in his 
hand. 

The cabman thought this “cove” had 
been drinking, and must be a trifle “tight.” 
He would not mind if he stood so for a 
couple of hours ; it would run his fare up to 
something pretty. So cabby had thoughts 
of clapping a nose-bag to his horse’s jaws, 
and was making up his mind to a bivouac. 

But Mr. Longcluse on a sudden got in, 
repeating his direction to the driver in a gay 
and brisk tone, that did not represent his 
real sensations. 

“Why should I be so disturbed at that 
little French fellow? Have I been ill, that 
my n*Brve is gone and I such a cursed fool ? 
One would think I had never seen a dead 
man till now. Better for him to be quiet 
than at his wits’ ends, devising ways and 
means to keep his seven cubs in bread and 
butter. I should have gone away when the 
game was over. AVhat earthly reason led 

me into that d d dark rooni, when I 

heard the fuss there? I’ve a mind to go 
and play hazard, or see a doctor. Arden 
said he’d look in, in the morning. I should 
like that; I’ll talk to Arden. I shan’t fllcep, 

I know, all night; I’ve got imprisoned in 
that brown, suffocating room. ShalW ever 
close my eyes again ? ” 

They had now reached the door of the 
small, unpretending house of this wealthy 
man. 

The servant'who opened the door, though 
he knew his business, stared a little, for he 
had never seen his master return in such a 
plight before, and looking so haggard. 

“ Where’s Franklin ? ” 

“ Arranging things in your room, sir.” 

“Give me a candle. The cab is paid. Mr. 
Arden, mind, may call in the morning ; if I 
should not’be down, show him to my room, j 
You are not to iethirn go without seeing me.” I 


Up-stairs went tl^e pale master of the 
house. “ Franklin ! ” he called, as he mount- 
ed the last flight of stairs, next his bed-room. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ I shan’t want you to-night, I think — 
that is, I shall manage what I want for my- 
self; but I mean to ring for you by-and-by.” 
He was in his dressing-room by this time, 
and looked round to see that his comforts 
were provided for as usual — his foot-bath 
and hot water. 

“ Shall I fetch your tea, sir? ” 

• “I’ll drink no tea to-night; I’ve been dis- 
gusted. I ’ve seen a murdered man, quite 
unexpectedly ; and I shan’t get over it for 
some hours, I dare say. I feel ill. And 
what you must do is this: when I ring my 
bell, you come back, and you must sit up 
here till eight in the morning. I shall leave 
the door between this and the next room 
open ; and should you hear me sleeping un- 
easily, moaning, or anything like nightmare, 
you must come in and waken me. And you 
are not to go to sleep, mind ; the moment I 
call, I expect you in my room. Keep your- 
self awake how you can : you may sleep all 
to-morrow, if you like.” 

With this charge Franklin departed. 

But Mr. Longcluse’s preparations for bed 
occupied a longer time than he had antici- 
pated. When nearly an hour had passed, Mr. 
Franklin ventured up-stairs, and quietly ap- 
proached the dressing-room door ; but there 
he heard his master still busy with his pre- 
parations, and withdrew. It was not until 
nearly half an hour more had passed that 
his bell gave the promised signal, and Mr. 
Franklin established himself for the rtiglit, 
in the easy chair in the dressing-room, with 
the connecting door between the two rooms 
open. 

The shock which Mr. Longcl use’s nerves 
had received did not permit that gentleman 
to sleep very soon. Two hours later he 
called for the eau-cJe-Cologne that stood on 
his dressing-table ; and although he made 
believe to wet his temples with it, and kept it 
at his bedside with that professed design, it 
was Mr. Franklin’s belief that he drank the 
better part of what remained in the capa- 
cious cut-glass bottle. It was not until 
people were beginning to “ turn out ” for 
their daily labor that sleep at length visited 
the wearied eye-balls of the Croesus. 

Three hours of death-like sleep, and Mr. 
Longcluse, with a little start, was wide 
awake. * »» 

“ Franklin ! ” 

“ Yes, sir.” And Mr. Franklin stood at 
his bedside. 

“ What o’clock is it? ” 

“ Just struck ten, sir.” 

“ Hand me the Times.” 

I'his was done. 

“ Tell them to get breakffist as usual. I ’in 
coming down. Open the shutters and draw 
the curtains, quite.” 

When Franklin had done this and 


gone 


CHECKMATE. 


17 


down, Mr. Lon gcluse read the Times with 
a stern eagerness, still in bed. The great 
billiard match between Hood and Markham 
was given in spirited detail ; but he was 
looking for something els'^. Just under this 
piece of news, he found it — “Murder and 
Robbery, in the Saloon Tavern.’’ He read 
this twice over, and then searched the paper 
in vain for any further news respecting it. 
After this search, he again read the short 
account he had seen before, very carefully, 
and more than once. Then he jumped out 
of bed, and looked at himself in the glass in 
his dressing-room. 

“ How awfully seedy I am looking! ” he 
muttered, after a careful inspection. “ Better 
by-and-by.” 

His hand was shaking like that of a man 
who had made a debauch, or was worn out 
with ague. He looked ten years older. 

“ I should hardly know myself,” muttered 
he. “ What a confounded, sinful old fogey I 
look, and I so young and innocent ! ” 

The sneer was for himself and at himself. 
The delivery of such is an odd luxury which, 
at one time or other, most men have indulged 
in. Perhaps it should teach us to take 
them more kindly when other people crack 
such cynical jokes on our heads, or, at least, 
to perceive that they don’t always argue 
personal antipathy. 

The sour smile which had for a moment, 
flickered. with a wintry light on his face, 
gave place suddenly to a dark fatigue ; his 
features sunk, and he heaved a long, deep, 
and almost shuddering sigh. 


There are mnments, liappilv very rare, 
when the idea of suicide is distinct enougii 
to be dangerous, and having passed which, 
a man feels that Death has looked him very 
nearly in the face. 

Nothing more trite and true than th^ 
omnipresence of suffering. The possession j 
of wealth exempts the fortunate owner from, ; 
say, two-thirds of the curse that lies heavy 
on the human race. Two-thirds is a great 
deal; but so is the other third, and it may 
have in it, at times, something as terrible as 
I human nature can support. 

Mr. Longcluse, the millionaire, had, of 
course, many poor enviers. Had any one of 
all these uttered such a sigh that morning ? 
Or did any one among them feel wearier of 
life? 

“ When I have had my tub, I shall be 
quite another man,” said he. 

But it did not give him the usual fillip ; 
on the contrary, he felt rather chilled. 

“ What can the matter be ? I ’m a changed 
man,” said he, wondering, as people do 
at the days growing shorter in autumn, that 
time had produced some changes. “ I re- 
member when a scene or an excitement pro- 
duced no more effect upon me, after the mo- 
ment, than a glass of champagne ; and now I 
feel as if I had swallowed poison, or drunk the 
cup of madness. Shaking! — hand, heart, 
every joint. I have grown such a muff! ” 

Mr. Longcluse had at length completed 
his very careless toilet, and looking ill, 
went down stairs in his dressing-gown and 
slippers. 



18 


CHECKMATE. 


CHAPTER VII. 

FAST FRIENDS. 

In little more tliaa half an hour, as Mr, 
Lon^cluse was sittins; at his breakfast in his 
dining-room, Richard Arden was shown in. 

“Dressing-gown and slippers — what a 
lazy dog I am compared with you ! ” said 
Longcluse, gayly, as he entered. 

“ Don't say another word on that subject, 
I beg. I should have been later myself, had 
I dared : but my uncle David had appointed 
to meet me at ten." 

“ Won't you take something? " 

“ Well, as I have had no breakfast, I don't 
mind if I do," said Arden, laughing. 

Longcluse rang the bell. 

“ When did you leave that place last 
night? " asked Longcluse. 

“ I fancy about the same time that you 
went — about five or ten minutes after the 
match ended. You heard there was a man 
murdered in a passage there? I tried to 
get down and see it, but the crowd was 
awful," 

“ I was more lucky — J came earlier," said 
Longcluse. “It was perfectly sickening, 
and I have been seedy ever since. You may 
guess what a shock it was to me. The mur- 
dered man was that poor little Frenchman 
I told you of, who had been talking to me, 
in high spirits, just before the play began — 
and there he was, poor fellow ! quite dead. 
You'll see it all there ; it makes me sick." 

He handed him the Times. 

“Yes, I see. I dare say the police will 
make him out," said Arden, as he glanced 
hastily over it. “ Did you remark some 
awfully ill-looking felloAvs there ? " 

“ I never saw so many together in a place 
of the kind before," said Longcluse. 

“That 's a capital account of the match," 
said Arden, whom it interested more than 
the tragedy of poor little Lebas did. 

He read snatches of it aloud as he ate his 
breakfast ; and then, laying the paper down, 
he said — 

“ By-the-by, I need not bother you by 
asking your advice, as I intended. My uncle 
David has been blowing me up, and I think 
he '11 make everything straight. When he 
sends for me and gives me an awful lecture, 
he always makes it up to me afterwards." 

“ I wish, Arden, I stood as little in need 
of your advice as you do, it seems, of mine," 
said Longcluse suddenly, after a short 
silence. His dark eyes were fixed on 
Richard Arden's. “ I iiave been fifty times 
on the point of making a confession to you, 
and my heart has failed me. The hour is 
coming. These things won't wait. I must 
speak, Arden, soon or never — verrj soon, or 
never. Never, perhaps, would be wisest." 

“ Speak now, on the contrary," said 
Arden, laying down his knife and fork, and 
leaning back. “Now is the best time al- 
ways. If it's a bad thing, why it's over; 


\ . 

and if it's a good one, the sooner we have it 
the better." 

Longcluse rose, looking down in medita- 
t-loii/ and in silence walked slowly to the 
window, where, for a time, without speak- 
ing, he stood in a revery. Then, looking 
up, he said — 

“ No man likes a crisis. ‘ No good 
general ever fights a pitched battle if he 
can help it.' Wasn't that Napoleon’s say- 
inu::? No man who has not lost his head 
likes to get together all he has on earth, 
and make one stake of it. I have been. on 
the point of speaking to you dften. I have 
always recoiled." 

“ Here I am, my dear Longcluse," said 
Richard Arden, rising and following him to 
the window, “ ready to hear you. I ought 
to say, only too happy if I can be of the 
least use." 

“Immense! everything!" said Long- 
cluse, vehemently. “ And yet I don't know 
how to ask you — how to begin — so much 
depends. Don't you conjecture the subject?" 

“ Well, perhaps I do — perhaps I don't. 
Give me some clue." 

“ Have you formed no conjecture ? " asked 
Longcluse. 

“ Perhaps." 

“ Is it anything in an}’- way connected 
with your sister, Miss Arden ? " 

“It may be, possibly." 

“Say what you think, Arden, I beseech 
you." 

“ Well, I think, perhaps, you admire her." 

“Do I ? do I ? Is that all? Would to 
God I could say that is all! Admiration, 
what is it? — Nothing. Love? — Nothing. 
xMine is adoration and utter madness. I 
have told my secret. What do you say? 
Do you hate me for it? " 

“Hate you, my dear fellow! why on 
earth should I hate you? On the contrary, 
I ought, I think, to like you better. I'm 
only a little surprised that your feelings 
should so^ much exceed anything I could 
have supposed." 

“ Yesterday, Arden, you spoke as if you 
liked me. As we drove into that place, I 
fancied you half understood me ; and, 
cheered by what you then said, I have spoken 
that Avhich might have died with me, but 
for that." 

“AVell, what's the matter? My dear 
Longcluse, you talk as if I had shown signs 
of wavering friendship. Have I? Quite the 
contrary." 

“ Quite the contrary, that is true," said 
Longcluse, eagerly: “ Yes, you should like 
me better for it — that is true also. Yours is 
no wavering friendship, I'm sure of it. Let 
us shake hands upon it. A treaty,. Arden, 
a treaty." 

With a fierce smile upon his pale face, and 
a sudden fire in his eyes, he extended his hand 
energetically, and took that of Arden, who 
answered the invitation with a look in which 
gleamed faintly something of amusement. 


CHECKMATE. 


19 


“ Now, Richard Arden,” he continued, ex- 
citedly, “ you have more influence with 
Miss Arden than falls commonly to the lot 
of a brother. I have observed it. It results 
from her having had durftig her earlier 
years little society but yours, and from your 
being some years her senior. It results 
I from her strong affection for you, from her 
admiration of your talents, and from her 
I having neither brother nor sister to divide 
; those feelings. I never yet saw brother 
; possessed of so evident and powerful an in- 
fluence with a sister. You must use it all 
for me.” 

lie continued to hold Arden’s hand in his 
as he spoke. 

“ You can withdraw your hand, if you 
decline,” said ho. ‘‘ I shan’t complain. But 
your hand remains — you don’t. It is a treaty, 
then. Henceforward we live fosdere icto. 

I ’m an exacting friend, but a good one.” 

“ My dear fellow, you do me but justice. 
I am your friend, altogether. But you must 
not mistake me for a guardian or a father 
in the matter. I wish I could make my 
sister think exactly as I do upon every sub- 
ject, and that above all others. All I can 
say is, in me you have a fast friend.” 

Longcluse pressed his hand, which he 
had not relinquished, at these words, with a 
firm grasp and a quick shake. 

“ Now listen. I must speak on this point, 
the one that is in my mind, my chief diffi- 
culty. Personally, there is not, I think, a 
living being in England who knows my his- 
tory. I am glad of it, for reasons which 
you will approve by-and-by. But this is an 
enormous disadvantage, though only tem- 
porary, and the friends of the young lady 
must weigh my wealth against it for the 
present. But when the time comes, which 
can’t now be distant, upon my honor! upon 
my soul 1 — by Heaven, I ’ll show you I ’m of 
as good and old a^family as any in England 1 
We have been gentlemen up to the time of 
the Conqueror, here in England, and as far 
before him as record can be traced in Nor- 
mandy. If I fail to show you this when the 
hour comes, then stigmatize me how you 
will.” 

“ I have not a doubt, dear Longcluse. But 
you are urging a point that really has no 
weight with us people in England. We 
have done taking off our hats to the gentle- 
men in casques' and tabards, and feudal 
glories are at a discount everywhere but in 
Debrett, where they are taken with allow- 
ance. Your ideas upon these matters are 
more Austrian than ours. We expect, per- 
haps, a little more from the man, but cer- 
tainly less from his ancestors than our 
forefathers did. So till a title turns up, 
and the heralds want them, make your mind 
easy on matters of pedigree, and then you 
can furnish them with effect. All I can tell 
you is this — there are hardly fifty men in 
England who dare tell all the truth about 
their families.” 


“ We are friends, then ; and^in that rela- 
tion, Arden, if there are privileges, there 
are also liabilities, remember, and both ex- 
tend into a possibly distant future.” 

Longcluse spoke with a gloomy excitement 
that his companion did not quite understand. 

“ That is quite true, of course,” said 
Arden. 

Each was looking in the other’s face for 
a moment, and each face grew suddenly 
dark, as the air was overshadowed by a 
mass of cloud that eclipsed the sun, threat- 
ening thunder. 

“By Jove! How awfully dark in a mo- 
ment!” said Arden, looking from the face 
thus suddenly overcast through the window 
toward the sky. 

“ Dark as the future we were speaking of,” 
8ai4 Longcluse, with a sad smile. 

“ Dark in one sense, I mean unseen, but not 
dark in the ill-omened sense,” said Richard 
Arden. “ I have great confidence in the 
future. I suppose I am sanguine.” 

“ I ought to be sanguine, if having been 
lucky hitherto should make one so, and yet 
I’m not. My happiness depends on that which 
I^cannot, in the least, control. Thought, ac- 
tion, energy, contribute nothing, and so I but 
drift, and — my heart fails me. Tell me, 
Arden, for Heaven’s sake, truth — spare me 
nothing, conceal nothing. Let me but know 
it, however bitter. First tell me, does Miss 
Arden dislike me — has she an antipathy to 
me ?” 

“ Dislike you ! Nonsense. How could 
that be? She evidently enjoys your society, 
when you are in spirits and choose to be 
amusing. Dislike you ? Oh, my dear Long- 
cluse, you can’t have fancied such a thing !” 
said Arden. 

“ A man placed as I am may fancy any- 
thing — things infinitely more improbable. 
I sometimes hope she has never perceived 
my admiration. It seems strange and cruel, 
but I believe where a man cannot be beloved, 
nothing is so likely to make him hated as his 
presuming to love. There is the secret of 
half the tragedies we read of. The man can- 
not cease to love, and the idol of his passion 
not only disregards but insults it. It is their 
cruel nature ; and thus the pangs of jealousy 
and the agitations of despair are heightened 
with a peculiar torture, the hardest of all 
hell’s tortures to endure.” 

“Well, I have seen you pretty often to- 
gether, and you must see there is nothing of 
that kind,” said Arden. 

“You speak quite frankly, do you? For 
Heaven’s sake, don’t spare me!” urged 
Longcluse. 

“I say exactly what I think. There can’t 
be any such feeling,” said Arden. 

Longcluse sighed, looked down thought- 
fully, and then, raising his eyes again, he 
said — 

“You must answer me another question, 
dear Arden, and I shall, for the present, task 
your kindness no more. If you think it a 


20 


CHECKMATE. 


fair question, will you promise to answer me 
with unsparing frankness? Let me hear the 
worst/^ 

“ Certainly,'^ answered his companion. 

“ Does your sister like anyone in particu- 
lar — is she attached to any one — are her 
affections quite disengaged V’ 

“ So far as I am aware, certainly. She 
never cared for any one among all the people 
who admired her, and I am quite certain 
such a thing could not be without my observ- 
ing it,'^ answered Richard Arden. 

“ I don’t know ; perhaps not,” said Long- 
cluse. “But there is a young friend of 
yours, who I thought was an admirer of 
Miss Arden’s, and possibly a favored one. 
You guess, I dare say, who it is I mean ? ” 

“ I give you my honor I have not the least 
idea.”' 

“ I mean an early friend of yours — a man 
about your own age — who has often been 
staying in Yorkshire and at Mortlake with 
you, and who was almost like a brother in 
your house — very intimate.” 

“ Surely you can’t mean Vivian Darnl ey ?” 
exclaimed Richard Arden. 

“ I do. I mean no other.” 

“ Vivian Darnley ! Why, he has hardly 
enough to live on, much less to marry on. 
Ho h^ not an idea of any such thing. If 
my ftuher fancied such an absurdity possi- 
ble, he would take measures to prevent his 
ever seeing her more. You could not have 
hit upon a more impossible man,” he re- 
sumed, after a moment’s examination of a 
theory which, notwithstanding, made him a 
little more uneasy than he would have cared 
to confess. “ Darnley is no fool, either, and 
I think he is an honorable fellow ; and alto- 
gether, knowing him as I do, the thing is 
utterly incredible. And as for Alice, the 
idea of his imagining any such folly, I can 
undertake to say, positively never entered 
her mind.” 

Here was another pause. Longcluse was 
again thoughtful. 

“ May I ask one other question, which I 
think you will have no difficulty in answer- 
ing? ” said he. 

“What you please, dear Longcluse; you 
may command me.” 

“Only this. How do you think Sir Regi- 
nald would receive me ? ” 

“ A great deal better than he will ever 
receive me; with his best bow — no, not 
that, but with open arms and his brightest 
smile. I tell you, and you ’ll find it true, 
my father is a man of the world. Money 
won’t, of course, do everything ; but it can 
do a great deal. It can’t make a vulgar man 
a gentleman, but it may make a gentleman 
anything; I really think you would find 
him a very fast friend. And now I must 
leave you, dear Longcluse. I have just time, 
and no more, to keep my appointment with 
old Mr. Dawe, to whom my uncle commands 
me to go at twelve.” 

“ Heaven keep us both, dear Arden, in 


this cheating world ! Heaven keep us true 
in this false London world ! And God pun- 
ish the first who breaks faith with the 
other ! ” 

So spoke Longcluse, taking his hand again, 
and holding it hard for a moment, with his 
unfathomable dark eyes on Arden. 

Was there a faint and unconscious menace 
in his pale face, as he uttered these words, 
which a little stirred Arden’s pride ? 

“ That ’s a comfortable litany to part with 
— a form of blessing elevated so neatly, at 
the close, into a malediction. However, I 
don’t object. Amen, by all means,” laughed 
Arden. 

Longcluse smiled. 

“ A malediction ? I really believe it was. 
Something very like it, and one that includes 
myself, does n’t it? But we are not likely 
to earn it. An arrow shot into the sea, it 
can hurt no one. But oh, dear Arden ! what 
does such language mean but suffering? 
What is all bitterness but pain ? Is any 
mind that deserves the name ever cruel, ex- 
cept from misery? We are good friends, 
Arden ; and if ever I seem to you for a mo- 
ment other than friendly, just say ‘ It is his 
heart-ache and not he that speaks.’ Good- 
by ! God bless you ! ” 

At the door was another parting. 

“ There’s a long dull day before me — say, 
rather, night; weary eyes, brain sleepless, 
utter darkness,” murmured Longcluse, in a 
rather dismal soliloquy, standing in his slip- 
pers and dressing-gown again at the window. 
“ Suspense! What a hell is in that word ! 
Chain a man across a rail, in a tunnel — 
pleasant situation ! — let him listen for the 
faint fifing and drumming of the engine, 
miles av^ay, not knowing whether deliver- 
ance or death may come first. Bad enough, 
that suspense. What is it to mine ? I shall 
see her to-night. I shall see her, and how 
will it all be ? Richard Arden wishes it — 
yes, he does. ‘ Away, slight man I’ It is 
Brutus who says that, I think. Good 
Heaven ! Think of my life — the giddy steps 
I go by. That dizzy walk by moonlight, 
when I lost my way in Switzerland — beau- 
tiful nightmare! — the two-mile ledge of 
rock before me, narrow as a plank ; up from 
my left, the sheer wall of rock ; at my right, 
so close that my glove might have dropped 
over it, the precipice ; and curling vapor on 
the cliffs above, that seemed about to break, 
and envelop all below in blinding mist. 
There is my life translated into landscape. 
It has been one long adventure — danger — 
fatigue. Nature is full of beauty — many 
a quiet nook in life, where peace resides ; 
many a man whose path is broad and smooth. 
Woe to the man who loses his way among 
Alpine tracks and is benighted !” 

Now Mr. Longcluse recollected himself. 
He had letters to read and note. He did this 
rapidly. He had business in town. He had 
fifty things on his hands ; and, the day over, 
he. would see Alice Arden again. 


CHECKMATE. 


21 


CHAPTER VHI. 

CONCERNING A BOOT. 

Several pairs of boots were placed in Mr. 
Longcluse’s dressing-room. 

“ Where are the boots that I wore yester- 
day? ” asked he. 

“ If you please, sir,^^ said Mr. Franklin, 
“ the man called this morning for the right 
boot of that pair.^^ 

“What man?’’ asked Mr. Longcluse, 
rather grimly. 

“ Mr. Armagnac’s man, sir.” 

“ Did you desire him to call for it?” asked 
Mr. Longcluse. 

“ No, sir. I thought ;^ou must have told 
some' one else to order him to send for it,” 
said Franklin. 

“ If You ought to know I leave those 
things to ^ou,” said Mr. Longcluse, staring 
at him more aghast and tierce than the pos- 
sible mislaying of a boot would seem quite 
to warrant. “Did you see Armagnac’s man?” 

“ No, sir. It was Charles who came up, 
at eight o’clock, when you were still asleep, 
and said the shoemaker had called for the 
right boot oL the pair you wore yesterday. 
I had placed them outside the door, and I‘ 
gave it to him, sir, supposing it all right.” 

“ Perhaps it was all right ; but you know 
Charles has not been a week here. Call him 
up. I ’ll come to the bottom of this.” ^ 

Franklin disappeared, and Mr. Longcluse, 
with a stern frown, was staring vaguely at 
the varnished boot, as if it could tell some- 
thing about its missing companion. His 
brain was already at work 

What the plague was the meaning of this 
manoeuvre about his boot? And why on 
earth, think I, should he make such a fuss 
and a tragedy about it ? 

Charles followed Mr. Franklin up the 
stairs. 

“'What’s all this about my boot?” de- 
manded Mr. Longcluse, peremptorily. “ Who 
has got it 

“ A man called for it this morning, sir.” 

“ What man ? ” 

“I think he said he came from Mr. Ar- 
magnac’s, sir.” 

“You thinlc. Say what you know, sir. 
What did he say ? ” said Mr. Longcluse, 
looking dangerous. 

“ Well, sir,” said the man, mending his 
case, “ he did say, sir, he came from Mr. 
Armagnac’s, and wanted the right boot.” 

“ What right boot? — any right boot? ” 

“ No, sir, please ; the right boot of the pair 
you wore last night,” answered the servant. 

“ And you gave it to him ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, ’t was me,” answered Charles. 

“Well, you may n’t be quite such a fool 
as you look. I ’ll sift all this to the bottom. 
You go, if you please, this moment, to Mon- 
sieur Armagnac, and say I should be obliged 
to him for a line to say whether he this 
morning sent for my boot and got it — and 


I must have it back, mind ; you shall bring 
it back, you understand? And you had 
better make haste.” 

“ I made bold, sir,” said Mr. Franklin, 
“ to send for it myself, when you sent me 
down for Charles ; and the boy will be back, 
sir, in two or three minutes.” 

“Well, come you and Charles here again 
when the boy comes back, and bring him 
here also. 1 ’ll make out who has been 
playing tricks.” 

Mr. Longcluse shut his dressing-room door 
sharply ; he walked to the window, and 
looked out with a vicious scowl ; he turned 
about, and lifted up his clenched hand, and 
stamped on the fl^or. 

A sudden thought now struck him. 

“The right foot? By Jove I it may not 
be the one.” 

The boot that was left was already in his 
hand. He was examining it curiously. 

“Ay, by heaven I The right was the 
boot! What’s the meaning of this? Con- 
spiracy? I should not wonder.” 

He examined it carefully again, and flung 
it into its corner with violence. 

“If it ’s an accident, it is a very odd one. 
It is a suspicious accident. It may be, of 
course, all right. I dare say it is all right. 
The odds are ten, tw'enty, a thousand to one 
that Armagnac has got it. I should have 
had a warm bath last night, and taken a ten 
miles’ ride into the country this morning. 
It must be all right, and I am plaguing my- 
self without a cause.” 

Yet he took up the boot, and examined it 
once more; then dropping it, went to the 
window and looked into the street — came 
back, opened his door, and listened for the 
messenger’s return. 

It was not long deferred. 

As he heard them approach, Mr. Long- 
cluse flung open his door and confronted 
them, in white waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, 
and with a very white and stern face — face 
and figure all white. 

“Well, what about it? Where’s the 
boot ? ” he demanded, sharply. 

“ The boy inquired, sir,” said Mr. Frank- 
lin, indicating the messenger with his open 
hand, and undertaking the office of spokes- 
man ; “and Mr. Armagnac did not send for 
the boot, sir, and has not got it.” 

“Oh, oh! very good. And now, sir,” he 
said, in rising fury, turning upon Charles, 
“what have you got to say for yourself? ” 

“ The man said he came from Mr. Ar- 
magnac, please, sir,” said Charles, “ and 
wanted the boot, which Mr. Franklin should 
have back as early as he could return it.” 

“ Then you gave it to a common thief with 
that cock-and-a-bull story, and you wish me 
to believe that you took it all for gospel. 
There are men who would pitch you over 
the bannisters for a less thing. If I could 
be certain of it, I ’d put you beside him in 
the dock. But, by heavens! I’ll come to 
the bottom of the whole thing yet.” 


22 


CHECKMATE. 


lie shut the door with a crash, in the faces 
of the three men who stood on the lobby. 

Mr. Franklin was a little puzzled at these 
transports, all about a boot. The servants 
looked at one another without a word. But 
just as they were going down, the dressing- 
room door opened, and the following dia- 
logue ensued : 

“ See, Charles, it was you who saw and 
spoke with that man?^^ said Longcluse. 

“Yes, sir.^^ 

“ Should you know him again ? 

“Yes, sir, I think I should.’^ 

“ What kind of man was he ? ” 

^ “A very common person, sir.^' 

“Was he tall or shorts What sort of 
figure ? ” 

“ Tall, sir. 

“Goon; what more? Describe him.'’ 

“ Tall, sir, with a long neck, and held 
himself straight; very flat feet, I noticed; a 
thin man, broad in the shoulders — pretty 
well that." 

“Describe his face," said Longcluse. 

“ Nothing very particular, sir; a shabby 
sort of face — a bad color." 

“How?" 

“ A bad white, sir, and pock-marked 
something; a broad face and flat, and a very 
little bit of a nose ; his eyes almost shut, 
and a sort of smile about his mouth, and 
stingy bits of red whiskers, in a curl, down 
each cheek. 

“How old?" 

“ He might be nigh fifty, sir." 

“Ha, ha! very good. Howwas he dressed?" 

“ Black frock-coat, sir, a good deal worn ; 
an old flowered satin waistcoat, and worn 
dirty, sir; and a pair of raither dirty tweed 
trousers. Nothing fitted him, and his hat 
was brown and greasy, begging you r parding, 
sir; and he had a stick in his hand, and 
cotton gloves — a-trying to look genteel." 

“And he asked for the right boot?" asked 
Mr. Longcluse. 

“Yes, sir." 

“ You are quite sure of that? Did he take 
the boot without looking at it, or did he ex- 
amine it before he took it away?" 

“ He looked at it sharp enough, sir, and 
turned up the sole, and he said ‘It's all 
right,' and he went away taking it along 
with him." 

“ He asked for the boot I wore yesterday, 
or last night — which did he say?" asked 
Mr. Longcluse. 

“I think it was last night he said, sir," 
answered Charles. 

“ Try to recollect yourself. Can't you be 
certain ? Which was it ? " 

“ I think it was last night, sir," he said. 

“ It does n't signify," said Mr. Longcluse; 
“ I wanted to see that your memory was 
pretty clear on the subject. You seem to 
remember all that passed pretty accurately." 

“ I recollect it perfect well, sir." 

“ H 'm ! That will do. Franklin, you '11 
remember that description — let every one 


of you remember it. It is the description 
of a thief ; and when you see that fellow 
again, hold him fast till you put him in the 
hands of a policeman. And, Charles, you 
must be prepared, d' ye see, to swear to that 
description ; for I am going to the detective 
office, and I shall give it to the police." 

“ Yes, sir," answered Charles. 

“ I shan't want you, Franklin ; let some 
one call a cab." 

So he returned to his dressing-room, and 
shut the door, and thought — 

“ That 's the fellow whom that miserable 
little fool, Lebas, pointed out to me at the 
saloon last night. He watched him, he said, 
wherever he went. I saw him. There may 
be other circumstances. That is the fellow 
— that is the very man. Here 's matter to 
think over ! By heaven I that fellow must 
be denounced, and discovered, and brought 
to justice. It is a strong case — a pretty 
hanging case against him. We shall see." 

Full of surmise about his lost boot, Atra 
Cura walking unheard behind him, with her 
cold hand on his shoulder, and with the im- 
age of the ex-detective always gliding before 
or beside him, and peering with an odious 
familiarity over his shoulder into his face, 
Mr. Longcluse marched eastward with a firm 
tread and cheerful countenance. 

Friends wdio nodded to him, as he walked 
along Piccadilly, down Saint James's Street, 
and by Pall Mall, citywards, thought he had 
just been listening to an amusing story. 
Others, who, more deferentially, saluted the 
great man as he walked lightly, by Temple 
Bar, toward Ludgate Hill, for a moment 
perplexed themselves with the thought, 
“What stock is up, and what down, on^ a 
sudden, to-day, that Longcluse looks so 
radiant ? " 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE MAN WITHOUT A NAME. 

Mr. Longcluse had made up his mind to 
a certain course — a sharp and bold'one. 

At the police office he made inquiry. 
“He understood a man had been lately dis- 
missed from the force, answering to a cer- 
tain description, which he gave them ; and 
he wished to know whether he was rightly 
informed, because a theft had been that 
morning committed at his house by a man 
whose appearance corresponded, and against 
whom he hoped to have sufficient evidence." 

“ Yes, a man like that had been dismissed 
from the detective department within the 
last fortnight." 

“What was his name? ".Mi-. Longcluse 
asked. 

- “ Paul Dav ies, sir." 

“ If it should turn out to be the same, I 
may have a more serious charge to bring 
against him," said Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Do you wish to go before his worship, 


CHECKMATE. 


23 


and give an information, sir?’^ urged the 
officer, invitingly. 

“ Not quite ripe for that yet,’’ said Mr. 
Longcluse, “but it is likely very soon.” 

. “ And what might be the nature of the 
more serious charge, sir? ” inquired the offi- 
cer, who was curious in all such trifles. 

“ I mean to give my evidence at the coro- 
ner’s inquest that will be held to-day, on the 
Frenchman who was murdered last night at 
the Saloon Tavern. It is not conclusive — 
it does not fix anything upon him ; it is 
merely inferential.” 

“Connecting him with the murder?” 
whispered the man, something like rever- 
ence mingling with his curiosity, as he dis- 
covered the interesting character of his 
interrogator. 

“ I can only say possibly connecting him 
in some way with it. Where does the man 
live?” 

“He did live in Rosemary Court, but he 
left that, I think. I’ll ask, if you please, 
sir. Tompkins — hi ! You know where 
Paul Davies puts up. Left Rosemary 
Court? ” 

“ Yes, five weeks. He went to Gold Ring 
Alley, but he ’s left that a week ago, and I 
don’t know where he is now, but will easy 
find him. Will it answer at eight this 
evening, sir?” 

“ Quite. I want a servant of mine to have 
a sight of him,” said Longcluse. 

“If you like, sir, to leave your address 
and a stamp, we ’ll send you the informa- 
tion by post, and save you calling here.” 

“ Thanks, yes, I ’ll do that.” 

So Mr. Longcluse took his leave, and pro- 
ceeded to the place where the coroner was 
sitting. 

Mr. Longcluse was received in that place 
with distinction. The moneyed man was 
honored — eyes were gravely fixed on him, 
and respectful whispers went about. A seat 
was procured for him ; and his evidence, 
when he came to give it, was heard with 
marked attention, and a general hush of 
expectation. 

The reader, with his permission, must 
now pass away, seaward, from this smoky 
London, for a few minutes, into a clear air, 
among the rustling foliage of ancient trees, 
and the fragrance of hay-fields, and the song 
of small birds. 

On the London and Dover road stands, 
as you know, the Ro3'^al Oak, still displa}'- 
ing its ancient signboard, where you behold 
King Charles II. sitting with laudable com- 
posure, and a crown of Dutch gold on his 
head, and displaying his finery tlirough an 
embrasure in the foliage, with an ostenta- 
tion somewhat reckless, considering the 
proximity of the points of the halberds of 
the military emissaries in search of him to 
the royal features. you drive tow'ard 
London it shows at the left side of the road, 
a good old substantial inn and posting house. 


Its business has dwindled to something very 
small indeed, for the traffic prefers the rail, 
and the once bustling line of road is now 
quiet. 

The sun had set, but a reflected glow 
from the sky was still over everything ; and 
by this somewhat lurid light Mr. Trtielock, 
the innkeeper, was observing from the steps 
the progress of a chaise, with four horses 
and two postilions, which was driving at a 
furious pace down the gentle declivity about 
a quarter of a mile away, from the Dover 
direction toward the Royal Oak and Lon- 
don. 

“ It ’s a runaway". Them horses has took 
head. What dp you think, Thomas?” he 
asked of the old waiter who stood beside 
him. 

“ No. See, the post-boys is whippin’ the 
bosses. No, sir, it ’s a gallop, but no run- 
away.” 

“ There’s luggage a’ top? ” said the inn- 
keeper. 

“ Yes, sir, there ’s something,” answered 
Tom. 

“ I don’t see nothing a-followin’ them,” 
said Mr. Truelock, shading his eyes with 
his hand, as he gazed. 

“ No — there is nothing,” said Tom. 

“They’re in fear o’ summat, or they’d 
never go at that lick,” observed Mr. True- 
lock, who was iuwmrdly conjecturing the 
likelihood of their pulling up at his door. 

“Lawk I there was a jerk. They was 
nigh over at the finger-post turn,” said 
Tom, with a grin. 

And now the vehicle and the reeking 
horses were near. The post-boys held up 
their whips by way of signal to the Royal 
Oak people on the steps, and pulled up the 
horses, with all their force, before the door. 
Trembling, snorting, rolling up wreaths of 
steam, the exhausted horses stood. 

“See to the gentleman, will ye?” cried 
one of the postilions. 

Mr. Truelock, with the old-fashioned po- 
liteness of the English innkeeper, had run 
down in person to the carriage-door, which 
Tom had opened. 

^Master and man were a little shocked to 
behold inside an old gentleman, with a very 
browti, or rather a very bilious visage, thin, 
and with a high nose, who looked, as he lay 
stiffly back in the corner of the carriage, 
enveloped in shawls, with a velvet cap on, 
as if he was either dead or in a fit. IDs 
ej^es were half open, and nothing but the 
white balls partly visible. There was a lit- 
tle froth at his lips. His mouth and deli- 
cately-formed hands were clenched, and all 
the furrows and lines of a selfish face fixed, 
as it seemed, in the lock of death. 

John Truelock said not a word, but peered 
at this visitor with a horrible curiosity. 

“ If he ’s dead,” Avhispered Tom in his 
ear. “we don’t take in no dead men here. 
Ye’ll have the coroner and his jury in the 
house, and the place knocked up-side down ; 


24 


C II E C K 31 A T E. 



and if ye make J&ve pounds one way you ’ll 
lose ten the tother.” 

“Ye’ll have to take him on, I’m think- 
in’,” said Mr. Truelock, rousing himself, 
stepping back a little, and addressing the 
post-boys sturdily. “ You ’ve no business 
bringin’ a deceased party to my house. You 
must go somewhere else, if so be he is de- 
ceased.” 

“ He’s not gone dead so quick as that?” 
said the postilion, dismounting from the 
near leader and throwing the bridle to a boy 
who stood by, as he strutted round handily 
to have a peep into the chaise. 

The postilion on the “ wheeler ” had turn- 
ed himself about in the saddle in order to 
have a peep through the front window of 
the carriage. 

The innkeeper returned to the door. 

If the old London and Dover road had 
been what it once was, there would have 
been a crowd about the carriage by this 
time. Except, however, two or three serv- 
ants of the Royal Oak, who had come out to 
see, no one had yet joined the little group 
but the boy who was detained, bridle in 
hand, at the horse’s head. 

“He’ll not be dead yet,” repeated the 
postilion, dogmatically. 

“ What happened him? ” asked Mr. True- 
lock. 

“ I don’t know,” answered the post-boy. 

“ Then how can you say whether he be 
dead or no ? ” demanded the innkeeper. 

‘‘ Fetch me a pint of half-and-half,” said 1 


the dismounted post-boy, aside, to one of the 
Royal Oak people at his elbow. 

“We was just at this side of High Ilix- 
ton,” said his brother in the saddle, “when 
he knocked at the window with his stick, and 
I got a cove to hold the bridle, and 1 came 
round to the window to him. He had scarce 
any voice in him, and looked awful bad, and 
he said he thought he was a-dying. ‘ Arid 
how far on is it to the next inn *? ’ he asked ; 
and I told him the Royal Oak was two miles ; 
and he said, ‘ Drive like lightning, and I ’ll 
give you half a guinea a-piece’ — I hope he’s 
not gone dead — ‘if you get there in time.’ ” 

By this time their heads were in the car- 
riage again. 

“ Do you notice a sort of little jerk in the 
foot, just the least thing in the world ? ” in- 
quired the landlord, who had sent for the 
doctor. “ It will be a fit, after all. If he’s 
living, we’ll fetch him into the ’ouse.” 

The doctor’s house was just round the cor- 
ner of the road, where the clump of elms 
stands, little more than a hundred yards 
from the sign of the Royal Oak. 

“Who is he?” inquired Mr. Truelock. 

“ I don’t know,” answered the postilion. 

“ What’s his name?” 

“ Don’t know that, neither.” 

“Why, it’ll be on that box, won’t it?” urged 
the innkeeper, pointing to the roof, where a 
portmanteau with a glazed cover was secured. 

“ Nothing on that, but -R. A.’ ” answered 
the man, who had examined it half an hour 
before, with the same object. 



CHECKMATE. 


25 


“ Royal Artillery, eh ? 

While they were thus conjecturing, the 
doctor arrived. 

He stepped into the chaise, felt the old 
man’s hand, tried his pulse, and finally 
applied the stethoscope. 

“ It is a nervous seizure. He is in a very 
exhausted state,” said the doctor, stepping 
out again, and addressing Truelock. “ You 
must get him into bed, and don’t let his 
head down; take off his handkerchief, and 
open his shirt collar — do you mind ? I had 
best arrange him myself.” 

So the forlorn old man, without a servant, 
without a name, is carried from the chaise, 
possibly to die in the inn. 

The Rev. Peter Sprott, the rector, passing 
that way a few minutes later, and hearing 
what had befallen, went up to the bed-room, 
where the old gentleman lay in a four-poster, 
still unconscious. 

“Here’s a case,” said the doctor to his 
clerical friend. “ A nervous attack. He’d 
be all right in no time, but he ’s so low. I 
dare say he crossed the herring-pond to-day, 
and was ill ; he ’s in such an exhausted 
state. I should not wonder if he sank; and 
here we are, without a clue to his name or 
people. No servant, no name on his trunk ; 
and, certainly, it would be awkward if he 
died unrecognized, and without a word to 
apprise his relations.” 

“ Is there no letter’ in his pockets?” 

“ Not one,” Truelock says. 

The rector happened to take up the great- 
coat of the old gentleman, in which he found 
a small breast-pocket, that had been undis- 
covered till now, and in this a letter. The 
envelope was gone, but the letter, in a lady’s 
hand, began : “ My dearest papa .” 

“We are all right, by Jove ; we’re in 
luck! ” 

“ How does she sign herself?” said the 
doctor. 

“ ‘ Alice Arden,’ and she dates from 8, 
Chester Terrace,” answered the clergyman. 

“We’ll telegraph forthwith,” said the 
doctor. “ It had best be in your name — the 
clergyman, you know — to a young lady.” 

So together they composed the telegram. 

“ Shall it be ill simply, or dangerously 
ill ? ’’'inquired the clergyman. 

“Dangerously,” said the doctor. 

“ But dangerously may terrify her.” 

“ And if we say only ill^ she may n’t come 
at all,” said the doctor. 

So the telegram was placed in Truelock’s 
hands, who went himself with it to the 
ofiice ; and we shall follow it to its destina- 
tion. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE ROYAL OAK. 

Three people were sitting in Lady May 
Penrose’s drawing-room, in Chester Terrace, 


the windows of which, as all her ladyship’s 
friends are aware, command one of the 
parks. They were looking westward, where 
the sky was all a-glow with the fantastic 
gold and crimson of sunset. 

It is quite a mistake to fancy that sunset, 
even in the heart of London — which this 
hardly could be termed -— has no rural mel- 
ancholy and poetic fascination in it. Should 
that hour by any accident overtake you, in 
the very centre of the city, looking, say, 
from an upper window, or any other eleva- 
tion toward the western sky, beyond stacks 
of chimneys, roofs, and steeples, even through 
the smoke of London, you will feel the mel- 
ancholy and poetry of sunset,, in spite of 
your surroundings. 

A little silence had stolen over the party ; 
and young Vivian Darnley, who stole a 
glance noAV and then at beautiful Alice Ar- 
den, whose large, dark, gray eyes, were 
gazing listlessly toward the splendid mists 
that were piled in the west, broke the silence 
by a remark that, without being very wise, 
or very new, was yet, he hoped, quite in ac- 
cord with the looks of the girl, who seemed 
for a moment saddened. 

“ I wonder why it is that sunset, which is 
so beautiful, makes us all so sad 1 ” 

“ It never made me sad,” said good Lady 
May Penrose, comfortably. “There is, I 
think, something very pleasant in a good 
sunset ; there must be, for all the little birds 
begin to sing in it — it must be cheerful. 
Don’t you think so, Alice? ” 

Alice was, perhaps, thinking of something 
quite different, for rather listlessly, and 
without a change of feature, she said — 

“ Oh, yes — very.” 

“ So, Mr. Darnley, you may sing, ‘ Oh, 
leave me to my sorrow ! ’ for we won’t mope 
with you about the sky. It is a very odd 
taste, that for being dolorous and miserable. 
I don’t understand it — I never could.” 

Thus rebuked by Lady Penrose, and 
deserted by Alice, Darnley laughed, and 
said — 

“ Well, I do seem rather to have- put my 
foot in it — but I did not mean miserable, 
you know ; I meant only that kind of thing 
that one feels when reading a bit of really 
good poetry — and most people do think it a 
rather pleasant feeling.” 

“ Don’t mind that moping creature, Alice ; 
let us talk about something we can all under- 
stand. I heard a bit of news to-day — per- 
haps, Mr. Darnley, you can throw a light 
upon it. You are a distant relation, I think, 
of Mr. David Arden.” 

“ Some very remote cousinship, of which 
I am very proud,” answered the young man 
gayly, with a glance at Alice. 

“And what is it — what about uncle 
David ? ” inquired the young lady with ani- 
mation. 

“ I heard it from my banker to-day. Your 
uncle, you know, dear, despises us and our 
doings, and lives, I understand, very quietly ; 


26 


CHECKMATE. 


I mean, he has chosen to live quite out of 
the world, so we have no chance of hearing 
anything, except by accident, from people 
we are likely to know. Do you see much of 
your uncle, my dear ? ” 

“ Not a great deal ; but I am very fond of 
him — he is such a good man, or at least, 
what is better,’^ she laughed, “he has al- 
ways been so very kind to me,’^ 

“ You know him, Mr. Darnley inquired 
Lady May. 

“ By Jove, I do ! ” 

“ And like him ? ” 

“No one on earth has better reason to 
like him,'^ answered the young man, warmly 
— “he has been my best friend on earth. 

“ It is pleasant to know two people who 
are not ashamed to be grateful,’^ said fat 
Lady May, with a smile. 

The young lady returned her smile very 
kindly. 

I donT think you ever beheld a prettier 
creature than Alice Arden. Vivian Darn- 
ley had wasted many a secret hour in sketch- 
ing that oval face. Those large, soft, gray 
eyes, and long, dark lashes, how difficult 
they are to express ! And the brilliant lips ! 
He could not anywhere find carmine intense 
enough. Could art itself y)aint anything 
quite like her? Who could paint those 
beautiful dimples that made her smiles so 
soft, or express the little circlet of pearly teeth 
whose tips were just disclosed ? Stealthily 
he was now, for the thousandth time, study- 
ing that bewitching smile again. 

“ And what is the story about uncle 
David? asked Alice, again. 

“ Well, what will you say — and you, Mr. 
Darnley, if it should be a story about a 
young lady ? ” 

“Do you mean that uncle David is going 
to marry? I think it would be an awful 
pity ! ” exclaimed Alice. 

“ Well, dear, to put you out of pain. I’ll 
tell you at once ; I only know this — that he 
is going to provide for her somehow, but 
whether by adopting her as a child, or taking 
her for a wife, I can’t tell. Only, I never 
saw any one look archer than Mr. Brounker 
did to-day when he told me ; and I fancied 
from that it could not be so dull a business 
as merely making her his daughter.” 

“And who is the young lady? ’’asked 
Alice. 

“ Did you ever happen to meet anywhere 
a Miss Grace Maubray?” 

“Oh, yes,” anvsw^ered Alice, quickly. “She 
was staying, and her father, Colonel Mau- 
bray, at the Wymerings last autumn. She’s 
quite lovely, I think, and very clever — but 
I don’t know — I think she’s a little ill-na- 
tured, but very amusing. She seems to have 
a talent for cutting people up — and a little 
of that kind of thing, you know, is very well, 
but one does not care for it always. And is 
she really the young lady ? ” 

“Yes, and Dear me! Mr. Darnley, 

I’m afraid my story has alarmed you.” 


“ Why should it? ” laughed Vivian Darn- 
ley, partly to cover, perhaps, a little confu- 
sion. 

“ I can’t tell, I ’m sure, but you blushed 
as much as a man can ; and you know you 
did. I wonder, Alice, what this under-plot 
can be, where all is so romantic. Perhaps, 
after all, Mr. David Arden is to adopt the 
young lady, and some one else, to whom he 
is also kind, is to marry her. Don’t you 
think that would be a very natural arrange- 
ment ? ” 

Alice laughed, and Darnley laughed ; but 
he was embarrassed. 

“ And Colonel Maubray, is he still liv- 
ing? ” asked Alice. 

“Oh, no, dear; he died ten or eleyen 
months ago. A very foolish man, you know ; 
he wasted a very good property. lie was 
some distant relation, also ; Mr. Brounker 
said your uncle, Mr. David Arden, was very 
much attached to him — they were school- 
fellows, and great friends all their lives.” 

“I should not wonder,” said Alice, smil- 
ing -Land then became silent. 

“ Do you know^ the young lady, this fortu- 
nate Miss Maubray'? ” said the Lady May, 
turning to Vivian Darnley again. 

“ I ? Yes — that is, I can’t say more than 
a mere acquaintance — and not an old one. 
I made her acquaintance at Mr. Arden’s 
house. He is her guardian. I don’t know 
about any other arrangements. I dare say 
there may be.” 

“Well, I know her a little, also,” said 
Lady May. “I thought her pretty — and 
she sings a little, and she ’s clever.” 

“ She’s all that,” said Alice. “ Oh, here 
comes Dick ! What do you say, Richard — 
is not Miss Maubray very pretty? We are 
making a plot to marry her to Vivian Darn- 
le3^ and get uncle David to contribute her 

dotr 

“ What benevolent people ! You don’t 
object, I dare say, Vivian.” 

“I have not been consulted,” said he; 
“ and, of course, uncle David need not be 
consulted, as he has simply to transfer the 
proper quantity of stock.” 

Richard Arden had drawn near Lady May, 
and said a few words in a low tone, which 
seemed not unwelcome to her. * 

“ I saw Longcluse this morning. He has 
not been here, has he ? ” he added, as a little 
silence threatened the conversation. 

“ No, he has not turned up. And what a 
charming person he is!” exclaimed Lady 
May. 

“ I quite agree with 3^11, Lady May,” said 
Arden. “ lie is, take him on every subject, 
I think, about the cleverest fellow I ever 
met — art, literature, games, chess, which I 
take to be a subject by itself. lie is very 
great at chess — for an amateur, I mean — 
and when I was chess-mad, nearly a year 
ago, and beginning to grow conceited, he 
opened my eyes. I can tell you ; and Airly 
says he is the best musical critic in England, 


CHECKMATE. 


27 


and can tell you at any hour who is who in 
the opera, all over Europe ; and he really 
understands, what so few of us here know 
anything about, foreign politics, and all the 
people and their stories and scandals he has 
at his finger’s ends. And he is such good 
company, when he chooses, an‘d such a gen- 
tleman always ! ” 

“ lie is ver}’’ agreeable and amusing when 
he takes the trouble ; 1 always like to listen 
when Mr. Lon gel use talks,” said Alice Ar- 
den, to the secret satisfaction of her brother, 
whose enthusiasm was, I think, directed a 
good deal to her — and to, perhaps, the vex - 1 
ation of other people, whom she did not Care 
at that moment to spare. 

“ An Admirable Crichton ! ” murmured 
Vivian Darnley, with a rather hackneyed 
sneer. “Do you like his style of — beauty, 

I suppose I should call it? It has the merit 
of being very uncommon, at least, don’t you 
think?” 

“ Beauty, I think, matters very little. He 
has no beauty, but his face has what in a 
man I think a great deal better — I mean 
refinement, and cleverness, and a kind of 
satire that rather interests one,” said Miss 
Arden, with animation. 

Sir Walter Scott, in his “Rob Roy” — 
thinking, no doubt, of the Diana Vernon of 
his early days, the then beautiful lady, 
long afterward celebrated by Basil Hall as 
the old Countess Purgstolf (if I rightly re- 
member the title), and recurring to some 
cherished incident, and the thrill of a pride 
that had ceased to agitate, but was at once 
pleasant and melancholy to remember — 
wrote these words : “ She proceeded to read 
the first stanza, which was nearly to the fol- 
lowing purpose. [Then follow the verses.] 

‘ There is a great deal of it,’ said she, glanc- 
ing along th^e paper, and interrupting the 
sweetest sounds that mortal ears can drink 
in — those of a youthful poet’s verses, 
namely, read by the lips which are dearest 
to them.” So writes Walter Scott. On the 
other hand, in certain states, is there a pain 
intenser than that of listening to the praises 
of another man from the lips we love ? 

“Well,” said Darnley, “as you say so, I 
suppose there is all that, though I can’t see 
it. Of course, if he tries to make himself 
agreeable (which he never does to me), it 
makes a dilference, itafiects everything — it 
affects even his looks. But I should not 
have thought him good-looking. On the 
contrary, he appears to me about as ugly a 
fellow as one could see in a day.” 

“He’s not that,” said Alice. “No one 
could be ugly with so much animation and 
so much expression.” 

“ You take up the cudgels very prettily^ 
my dear, for Mr. Longcluse,” said Lady 
May. “ I’m sure he ought to be extremely 
obliged to you.” 

“ So he would be,” said Richard Arden. 
“It would upset him for a week, I have no 
doubt.” 


There are few things harder to interpret 
than a blush. At these words the beautiful 
face of Alice Arden flushed, first with a faint 
and then, as will happen, with a brighter 
crimson. 

If Lady May had seen it she would have 
laughed, probably, and told her how much 
it became her. But she was at that moment 
going to her. chair in the window, and 
Richard Arden would, of course, accompany 
her. He did see it, as distinctly as he saw 
the glow in the sky over the park trees. 
But, knowing what a slight matter will 
sometimes make a recoil, and even found an 
antipathy, he wisely chose to see it not — 
and chatting gayly, followed Lady May to 
the window. 

But Vivian Darnley, though he said noth- 
ing, saw that blush, of which Alice, with a 
sort of haughty defiance, was conscious. It 
did not make him like or admire Mr. Long- 
cluse more. 

“Well, I suppose he is very charming — 
I don’t know him well enough myself to give 
an opinion. But he makes his acquaintances 
rather oddly, doesn’t he ? I don’t think 
any one will dispute that.” 

“I don’t know really. Lady May intro- 
duced him to me, and she seems to like him 
very much. So far as I can see, people are 
very well pleased at knowing him, and don’t 
trouble their heads as to how it came about,” 
said Miss Arden. 

“ No, of course ; but people not fortunate 
enough to come within the influence of his 
fascination, can’t help observing. How did 
he come to know your brother, for instance? 
Did any one introduce him ? Nothing of the 
kind. Richard’s horse was hurt or lame at 
one of the hunts in Warwickshire, and he 
lent him a horse, and introduced himself, 
and they dined together that evening on the 
way back, and so the thing was done.” 

“ Can there be a better introduction than 
a kindness? ” asked Alice. 

“ Yes, where it is a kindness, I agree ; but 
no one has a right to push his services upon 
a stranger who does not ask for them.” 

“ I really can’t see. Richard need not 
have taken his horse if he had not liked,” 
she answered. 

“ And Lady May, who thinks him such a 
paragon, knows no more about him than any 
one else. She had her footman behind her 
— didn’t she tell you all about it ? ” 

“ I really don’t recollect ; but does it very 
much matter ? ” 

“I think it does — that is, it has been a 
sort of system. lie just gave her his arm 
over a crossing, where she had taken fright, 
and then pretended to think her a great deal 
more frightened than she really can have 
been, and made her sit down to recover in a 
confectioner’s shop, and so saw her home, 
and that affair was concluded. I don’t say, 
of course, that he is never introduced in the 
regular way ; but a year or two ago, when 
I he was beginning, he always made his ap- 


28 


C HECK MAT E. 


proacli'CS by nieans of tbatlcind of stratagem ; 
and the fact is, no one knows anything on 
earth about him ; he has emerged, like a 
figure in a phantasmagoria, from total dark~ 
ness, and may lose himself in -darkness again 
at any moment,’’ 

“ I am interested in that man, whoever he 
is ; his entrance and his probable exit so 
nearly resemble mine,” said a clear, deep- 
toned voice close to them ; and looking up, 
Miss Arden saw the pale face and peculiar 
smile of Mr. Longcluse in the fading twi- 
light. 

Mr. Longcluse was greeted by Lady May’ 
and by Richard Arden, and then again he 
drew near Alice, and said — 

“ Do you recollect. Miss Arden, about ten 
days ago I told you a story that seemed to 
interest you — the story of a young and 
eloquent friar, who died of love in his cell in 
an abbey in the Tyrol, and whose ghost used 
to be seen pensively leaning on the pulpit 
from which he used to preach, too much 
thinking of the one beautiful face among 
his audience, which had enthralled him. I 
had left the enamel portrait I told you of at 
an artist’s in Paris, and wrote for it, think- 
ing you might wish to see it — hoping you 
might care to see it,” he added in a lower 
tone, observing that Vivian Darnle}^ who 
was not in a happy temper, had, with a sud- 
den impulse of disdain, removed himself to 
another window, there to contemplate the 
muster of the stars in the darkening sky, at 
his leisure. 

“ That was so kind of you, Mr. Longcluse! 
You have had a great deal of trouble. It is 
such an interesting story ! ” said Alice. 

In his reception Mr. Longcluse found 
something that pleased, almost elated him. 
Had Richard Arden been speaking to her on 
the subject of their morning’s conversation? 
He* thought not. Lady May had mentioned 
that he had not been with them till just 
twenty minutes ago, and Arden had told him 
that he had dined with his uncle David and 
Mr. Dawe, upon the same business on which 
he had been occupied with both nearly all 
day. No, he’ could not have spoken to her. 
The slight change which made him so 
tumultuously proud and happy was entirely 
spontaneous. 

“ So it seemed to me — an eccentric and 
interesting story — but pray do not wound 
me by speaking of trouble. I only wish you 
knew half the pleasure it has been to me to 
get it to show you. May I hold the lamp 
near for a moment while you look at it?” he 
said, indicating a tiny lamp which stood on 
a pier-table, showing a solitary gleam, like 
alight-house, through the gloom; “you 
could not possibly see it in this faint twi- 
light.” 

The lady assented. Had Mr, Longcluse 
ever felt happier ? 


CHAPTER XL 

THE TELEGRAM ARRIVES. 

Mr. Longclitse placed the little oval 
enamel, set in gold, in Miss Arden’s fingers, 
and held the lamp beside her while she 
looked. 

“ How beautiful I How very interesting ! ” 
she exclaimed. “What sufeing in those 
thin, handsome features ! What a strange 
enthusiasm in those large hazel eyes ! I 
could fancy that monk the maddest of lovers, 
the most chivalric of saints. And did he 
really suffer that incredible fate? Did he 
really die of love ? ” 

“So they say. But why incredible? I 
can quite imagine that wild shipwreck, 
seeing what a raging sea love is, and how 
frail even the strongest life.” 

“Well, I can’t say, I am sure. But your 
own novelists laugh at the idea of any but 
women — whose business it is, of course, to 
pay that tribute to their superiors — dying 
of love. But if any man could die such a 
death, he must be such as this picture repre- 
sents. What a wild, agonized picture of 
passion and asceticism 1 What suicidal 
devotion and melancholy rapture ! I de- 
clare I could almost fall in love with that 
picture myself.” 

“And I think, were I he, I could alto- 
gether die to earn one such sentence, so 
spoken,” said Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Could you lend it to me for a very few 
days ? ” asked the young lady. 

“As many — as long as you please. I 
am only too happy.” 

“ I should so like to make a large draw- 
ing of this in chalks ! ” said Alice, still gazing 
on the miniature. 

“ You draw so beautifully in chalks ! 
Your style is not often found here — your 
coloring is so fine.” 

“ Do you really think so?” 

“You must know it. Miss Arden. You 
are too fine an artist not to suspect what 
every one else must see, the real excellence 
of your drawings. Your coloring is better 
understood in France. Your master, I fancy, 
was a Frenchman,” said Mr. Longcluse. 

“Yes, he was, and we got on very well 
together. Some of his young lady pupils 
were very much afraid of him,” 

“Your poetry is fired by that picture. 
Miss Arden. Your copy will be a finer 
thing than the original,” said he. 

“ I shall aim only at making it a faithful 
copy: and if I can accomplish anything like 
that, I shall be only too glad.” 

“I hope you will allow me to see it?’^ 
pleaded Longcluse. 

“Oh, certainly,” she laughed. “Only 
I ’m a little afraid of you, Mr. Longcluse.” 

“What can you mean. Miss Arden?” 

“ I mean, you are so good a critic in art, 
every one says, that I really am afraid of 
3 ’^ou,” answered the young lady, laughing. 


C H E C K :\I A T E. 


29 


“ I should he very glad to forfeit any little 
knowledge I have, if it were attended with 
such a misfortune/' said Longcluse. “But 
I don't flatter ; I tell you truly, a critic has 
only to admire, when he looks at your draw- 
ings ; they are quite above the level of an 
amateur’s work." 

“ Well, whether you mean it or not, I am 
very much flattered," she laughed. “ And 
though wise people say that flattery spoils 
one, 1 can't help thinking it very agreeable 
to be flattered." 

At this point of the dialogue Mr. Vivian 
Darnley — who wished that it should be 
lain to all, and to one in particular, that 
e did not care the least what was going on 
in other parts of the room — began to stum- 
ble through the treble of a tune at the piano 
with his right hand. And whatever other 
people may have thought of his performance, 
to Miss Alice Arden itseemed very good music 
indeed, and inspired her with fresh anima- 
tion. 

Such as it was, Mr. Darnley's solo also 
turned the course of Miss Arden's thoughts 
from drawing to another art, and she 
said — 

“ You, Mr. Longcluse, who know every- 
thing about the opera, can you tell me^of 
course you can — anything about the great 
basso who is coming?" 

“ Stentoroni ? " 

“ Yes ; the newspapers and critics promise 
wonders." 

“ It is nearly two years since I heard him. 
lie was very great, and deserves all they 
say, in ‘Robert le Liable.' But there his 
greatness began and ended. The voice, of 
course, you had, but everything else was 
defective. It is plain, however, that the 
man who could make so fine a study of one 
opera, could Avith equal labor make as great 
a success in others. He has not sung in 
any opera for more than a year and a half, 
and has been working diligently ; and so 
every one is in the dark very much, and I 
am curious to hear the result — and nobody 
knows more than I have told you. You are 
sure of a good ‘Robert le Liable,' but all 
the rest is speculation." 

“And noAV, Mr. Longcluse, I shall try 
your good-nature." 

“ liow?" 

“I am going to make Lady May ask you 
to sing a song." 

“ Pray don’t." 

“ Why not? " 

“ I should so much rather you asked me 
yourself." 

“That's very good of you; then I cer- 
tainly shall. I do ask you." 

“And I instantly obey. And what shall 
the song be?" asked he, a]Aproaching the 
piano, to which she also walked. 

“Oh, that ghostly one that I liked so 
much when you sang it here about a week 
ago," she answered. 

“I know it — yes, with pleasure." And 


he sat down at the piano, and, in a clear, 
rich baritone, sang the following odd song: — 

“The autumn le^f was fallrng 
At midnight from the tree. 

When at her casement calling, 

‘ I ’m here, my love,’ says he. 

‘Come down and mount behind me. 

And rest your little Itead, 

And in your white arms wind me. 

Before that I be dead. 

‘“You’ve stolen my heart by magic, 

I ’ve kissed your lips in dreams : 

Our wooing, wild and tragic, 
lias been in ghostly scenes. 

The wondrous lO'Ve I bear you 
lias made one life of twain, 

And it will bless or scare you, 

In deathless peace or pain. 

“‘Our dreamland shall be glowing, 

If you my bride will be; 

To darkness both are going, 

Unless you come with me. 

Come now, and mount behind me, 

And rest your little head, 

And in your white arms wind me, 

Before that I be dead.’’’ 

“ Why, dear Alice, will you choose that 
dismal song, Avhen you know that Mr. 
Longcluse has so many others that are not 
only charming, but cheery and natural?" 

“ It is because it is tmnatural that I like 
that song so much ; the air is so ominous and 
spectral, and yet so passionate. I think the 
idea is Icelandic — those ghostly lovers that 
came in the dark to win their beloved 
maidens, who as yet knew nothing of their 
having died, to ride with them OA^er the 
snoAvy fields and frozen rivers, to join their 
friends at a merry-making which they were 
never to see ; but there is something more 
mysterious even, in this lover, for his pas- 
sion has unearthly beginnings that lose 
themselves in utter darkness. Thank you 
very much, Mr. Longcluse. It is so very 
kind of yon ! And now, Lady May, is n't 
it your turn to choose? May, she choose, 
Mr. Longcluse?" 

“ Any one, if you desire it, may choose 
anything that I possess, and have it," said 
he, in a low, impassioned murmur. 

How the young lady would have taken 
this, I know not, but all were suddenly in- 
terrupted. 

For at this moment a servant entered Avith 
a note, which he presented, upon a salver, 
to Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Your seiwant is waiting, sir, please, for 
orders in the awl,'’ murmured the man. 

“Oh, yes — thanks," said Mr. Longcluse, 
Avho saAV a shabby letter, Avith the Avords 
“Private" and “ Immediate " AA^ritten in a 
round, vulgar hand over the address. 

“ Pray read your note, Mr. Longcluse, and 
don't mind us,'^ said Lady May. 

“ Thank yon very much. I think I knoAV 
what this is. I gave some evidence to-day 
at an inquest," began Mr. Longcluse. 

“ That wretched Frenchman," interposed 
Lady May, “ Monsieur Lebrun, or " 

“ Lebas," said Vivian Larnley. 

“ Yes, so it was, Lebas ; what a frightful 


80 


CHECKMATE. 


thing that was ! ” continued Lady May, who 
was always well up in the day’s horrors. 

“Very melancholy^, and very alarming 
also. It is a selfish way of looking at it, but 
one can’t help thinking it might just as well 
have happened to any one else who was 
there. It brings it home to one a little un- 
comfortably,” said Mr. Longcluse, with an 
uneasy smile and a shrug. 

“ And you actually gave evidence, Mr. 
Longcluse ? ” said Lady May. 

“ Yes, a little,” he answered. “ It may 
lead to something. I hope so. As yet it 
only indicates a line of inquiry. It will be 
in the papers, I suppose, in the morning. 
There will be, I dare say, a pretty full re- 
port of that inquest.” 

“ Then you saw something occur that ex- 
cited your suspicions?” said Lady May. 

Mr. Longcluse recounted all he had to 
tell, and mentioned having made inquiries 
as to the present abode of the man, Paul 
Davies, at the police office. 

“ And this note, I dare say, is the one 
they promised to send me, telling the result 
of their inquiries,” he added. 

“ Pray, open it and see,” said Lady May. 

lie did so. He read it in silence. 

From his foot to the crown of his head 
there crept a cold influence as he read. 
Stream after stream, this aura of fear spread 
upward to his brain. Pale Mr. Longcluse 
shrugged and smiled, and smiled and 
shrugged, as his dark eye ran down the 
lines, and with a careless finger he turned 
the page over. 

He smiled, as prize-fighters smile for the 
spectators, while his nerves quivered with 
paih. 

He looked up, smiling still, and thrust 
the note into his breast-pocket. 

“ Well, Mr. .Longcluse, a long note it 
seems to have been,” said Lady May, curi- 
ously.' 

“ Not very long, but what is as bad, very 
illegible,” said Mr. Longcluse, gayly. 

“ And what about the man — the person 
the police were to have inquired after?” she 
persisted. 

“ I find it is no police information, nothing 
of the kind,” answered Longcluse, with the 
same smile. “ It comes by no means from 
one of that long-headed race of men ; on the 
contrary, poor fellow, I believe he is literally 
a little mad. I make him a trifling present 
every Christmas, and that is a very good ex- 
cuse for his plaguing me all the year round. 
I was in hopes this letter might turn out an 
amusing one, but it is not: it is a failure. 
It is rather sensible, and disgusting.” 

“Well, then, I must have my song, Mr. 
Longchise,” said Lady May, whoi, under 
cover of music, sometimes talked a little, in 
gentle murmurs, to that person with whom 
talk was particularly interesting. 

But that song was not to be heard in Lady 
May’s drawing-room that night, for a kin- 
dred interruption, though much more serious 


in its efi’ects upon Mr. Longcluse’s compan- 
ions, occurred. 

A footman entered, and presented on a 
salver a large brown envelope to Miss Alice 
Arden. 

“ Oh, dear ! It is a telegram,” exclaimed 
Miss Arden, who had taken it to the window. 
Lady May Penrose was beside her by this 
time. Alice looked on the point of fainting. 
Her very lips were white. 

“ I’m afraid papa is very ill,” she whis- 
pered, handing the paper, which trembled 
very much in her hand, to Lady May. 

“ Hm ! Yes — but you may be sure it’s 
exaggerate^. Bring some sherry and water, 
please. You look a little frightened, my 
dear. Sit down, darling. There, now ! These 
messages are always written in a panic. 
What do you mean to do ? ” 

“ I’ll go, of course,” said Alice. 

“Well, yes — I think you must go. What 
is the place? Twyford, the Koj^al Oak? 
Look out Twyford, please, Mr. Darnle}^ — 
there’s a book, there. It must be a post- 
town. It was thoughtful saying it is on the 
Dover coach road.” 

Vivian Darnley was gazing in deep con- 
cern at Alice. Instantly he began turning 
over*the book, and announced in a few mo- 
ments more — 

“ It is a post-town — only thirty-six miles 
from London,” said Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Thanks,” said Lady May. “ Oh, here’s 
the wine — I’m so glad! You must have a 
little, dear ; and you’ll take Louisa Diaper 
with you, of course ; and you shall have one 
of my carriages, and I’ll send a servant with 
you, and he’ll arrange everything ; and how 
soon do you wish to go?” 

“Immediately, instantly — thanks, dar- 
ling. I’m so much obliged ! ” 

“ Will your brother go with you? ” 

“No, dear. Papa, you know, has not for- 
given him, and it is, I think, two years since 
they met. It would only agitate him.” 

And with these words she hurried to her 
room, and in another moment, with the aid 
of her maid, was completing her hasty pre- 
parations. 

In Avonderfully little time the carriage was 
at the door. Mr. Longcluse had taken his 
leave. 

So had Richard Arden, with the one direc- 
tion to the servant, “ If anything should go 
very wrong, be sure to telegraph for me. 
Here is my address.” 

“ Put this in your purse, dear,” said Lady 
May. “Your father is so thoughtless, he 
may not have brought money enough with 
him ; and you will find it is as I say — he’ll 
be a great deal better by the time you get 
there ; and God bless you, my dear.” 

And she kissed her as heartily as she 
dared, without communicating the rouge 
and white powder which aided her com- 
plexion. 

As Alice ran down, Vivian Darnley 
awaited her outside the drawing-room door, 


CHECKMATE. 


31 


and ran down with her. and put her into the I 
carriage. 

lie leaned for a moment on the window, 
and said — 

“ I hope you did n’t mind that nonsense 
Lady May was talking just now about Miss 
Grace Maubray. I assure you it is utter folly. 

1 was awfully, vexed ; but you did n’t believe 
it?” 

” I did n’t hear her sa}* anything, at least 
seriously. Was n’t she laughing? I ’m in 
such trouble about that message I I am so 
longing to be at ray journey’s end ! ” 

He took her hand and pressed it, and the 
carriage drove away. And standing on the 
steps, and quite forgetting the footinen close 
behind him, he watched it as it drove rapidly 
southward, until it was quite out of sight ; 
and then, with a great sigh, and “ God for 
ever bless you ! ” — uttered not above his 
breath — he turned about, and saw those 
powdered and liveried effigies, and Avalked 
up with his head rather high to the drawing- 
room, where he found Lady May. 

“ I shan’t go to the opera to-night ; it is 
out of the question,” said she. “ But yo'iL 
shall. You go to my box, you know ; Jeph- 
son will put you in there.” 

It was plain that the good-natured soul 
was unhappy about Alice, and, Richard 
Arden having departed, wished to be alone. 
So Vivian took his leave, and went away — 
but not to the opera — and sauntered for an 
hour, instead, in a melanclioly romance up 
and down the terrace, till the moon rose and 
silvered the trees in the park. 


CHAPTER XII. 

SIR REGINALD ARDEN. 

The human mind being, in this respect, 
of the nature of a kaleidoscope, that the 
slightest hitch, or jolt, or tremor is enough 
to change the entire picture that occupies it, 
it is not to be supposed that the illness of her 
father, alarming as it was, could occupy 
Alice Arden ’s thoughts to the exclusion of 
every other subject, during every moment of 
her journey. 

One picture, a very pretty one, frequently 
presented itself, and always her heart felt a 
strange little pain as this pretty phantom 
appeared. 

It was the portrait of a young girl, with 
fair golden hair, a brilliant complexion, and 
large blue eyes, with something riant, tri- 
umphant, ^nd arch to the verge of mischief, 
in her animated and handsome face. 

The careless words of good Lady May, 
this evening, and the very obvious confusion 
of Vivian Darnley at mention of the name 
of Grace Maubray, troubled her. What was 
more likely than that uncle David, interest- 
ed in both, should have seriously projected 


the union which Lady May had gayly sug- 
ge.-^ted ? 

If she — Alice Arden — liked Vivian Darn- 
ley, it was not very much, her pride insisted. 
In her childhood they had been thrown to- 
gether. He had seemed to like her ; bu4 had 
he ever spoken? Why was he silent ? Was 
she ^ol enough to like him ? — that cautious, 
selli.'^ .young man, who was thinking, she 
was quite certain now, of a marriage of pru- 
dence or ambition with Grace Maubray? It 
was a cold, cruel, sordid world ! 

But, after all, why shf)uld he have spoken ? 
or wliy should he have hoped to be heard 
with favor? She had been to him, thank 
Heaven, just as any other pleasant, early 
frmnd. There was nothing to regret — noth- 
ing fairly to blame. It was just that a per- 
son whom she had come to regard as a 
property was about to go, and belong quite, 
to another. It was the foolish littlejealousy 
that every one feels, and that means nothing. 
So she told herself ; but constantly recurred 
the same pretty image, and with it the same 
sudden little pain at her heart. 

But now came the other care. As time 
and space shorten, and the moment of de- 
cision draws near, the pain of suspense in- 
creases. They were within six miles of 
Twyford. Her heart was in a wild flutter — 
now throbbing rnadl}', now it seemed stand- 
ing still. The carriage window was down. 
She was looking out on the scenery — strange 
to her — all bright and serene under a bril- 
liant moon. What mes.sage awaited her at 
the inn to which they were travelling at this 
swift space? How frightful it might be! 

“Oh, Louisa!” she every nowand then 
imploringly cried to her maid, “ how do you 
think it will be? Oh ! how will it be? Do 
you think he’ll be better? Oh! do you think 
he’ll be better? Tell me again about his 
other illness, and how he recovered. Don’t 
you think he will this time? Oh, Louisa, 
darling! don’t you think so? Tell me — 
tell me you <lo ! ” 

Thus, in her panic, the poor girl wildly 
called for help and comfort, until at last the 
carriage turned a curve in the road at which 
stood a shadowy clump of elms, and in another 
moment the driver pulled up under the sign 
of the Royal Oak. 

“Oh, Louisa! Here it is,” cried the 
young lady, holding her maid’s wrist with 
a trembling grasp. 

The inn-door was shut, but there was 
light in the hall, and light in an upper 
room. 

“ Don’t knock — only ring the bell. He 
may be asleep, God grant ! ” said the young 
lady. 

The door was quickly opened, and a waiter 
ran down to the carriage window, where he 
saw a pair of large wild eyes, and very pale 
lips, which said — 

“ An old gentleman has been ill here, and 
a telegram was sent ; is he — how is he ? ” 

“He’s better, ma’am,” said the man. 


32 


CHECKMATE. 


With a loAY, long “0 — Oh ! ’’ and clasped 
hands and upturned eyes, she leaned back 
in the carriage, and a sudden flood of tears 
relieved her. 

Yes ; he Avas a great deal better. The 
attack was quite over ; but he had not 
spoken. He seemed much exhausted ; and, 
having SAvalloAved some claret, -which the 
doctor prescribed, he had sunk into a sound 
and healthy sleep, in which he still lay. A 
message by telegraph had been sent to an- 
nounce the good news, but Alice AA'as some 
way on her journey before it had reached. 

Now the young lady got down, and en- 
tered the homely old inn, followed by her 
maid. She could have dropped on her knees 
in gratitude to her Maker; but true religion, 
like true affection, is shy of demonstrating 
its fervors where sympathy is doubtful. 

Gentl3q hardly breathing, guided by the 
“ chamber-maid, she entered her father’s 
room, and stood at his liedside. There he 
lay, yellow, lean, the lines of his flice in 
repose, still forbidding, the thin lips and 
thin nose looking almost transparent, and 
breathing deeply and regularly, as a child 
in his slumbers. In that face Alice could 
not discover what any stranger (*.ould have 
seen. She only saw the face of her father. 
Selfish and capricious as he was, and violent 
too — a Avicked old man, if one could see him 
justly — he was yet proud of her, and had 
many schemes and projects afloat in his 
jaded old brain, of which her beauty Avas 
the talisman, of Avhich she suspected nothing, 
and with Avhich his head was never more 
busy than at the very moment Avhen he Avas 
surprised by the mira of his coming fit. 

d'he doctor’s conjecture was right. He 
had crossed the Channel that morning. In 
his French coiipbe, he had for companion 
the very man he had mo.st wished and con- 
trived to travel homeAvard with. 

This was Lord Wynderbroke. 

Lord Wynderbroke was fifty^ years bid and 
upAvard. He was very much taken with 
Alice, Avhom he had met pretty often. He 
was a man Avho was thought likely to marry. 

His estate was in the nattiest order. ^ He 
had always been prudent, and cultivated a 
character. He had, moreover, mortgages 
OA^er Sir Reginald Arden’s estate, the in- 
terest of which the baronet Avas ])eginni>ig 
to find it next to impossible to paAn They 
had been making a little gouty visit to 
Vichy, and Sir Reginald had taken good 
care to make the journey homeAvard with 
Lord Wynderbroke, Avho kncAv that AA'hen 
he pleased he could be an amusing com- 
panion, and Avho also felt that kind of in- 
terest in him Avhich every one experiences 
in the kindred of the young lady of whom 
he is enamored. 

The baronet, who tore up or burnt his 
letters for the most part, had kept this par- 
ticular one by Avhich his daughter had been 
traced and summoned to the- Royal Oak. 
It was, he thought, clever. It Avas amusing. 


and had some London gossip. He had rend 
bits of it to Lord Wynderbroke in the cmiyy^p. 
Lord Wynderbroke Avas delrghtcd. When 
they parted, he had asked leave to pay him 
a visit at Mortlake. 

“Only too happy, if you are not afraid of 
the old house falling in upon us. Every- 
thing ihere, you knoAV, is very much as n)y 
grandfather left it. I only use it as a cara- 
vanserai, and alight there for a little, on a 
journey. Everything there is tumbling to 
pieces. But you won’t mind — no more 
than I do.” 

So the little visit Avas settled. 

The passage was rough. Peer and baro- 
net Avere ill. They did not care to reunite 
their fortunes, after they touched English 
ground. 

As the baronet drew near London, for 
certain reasons he greAv timid. He got out 
Avith a portmanteau and dressing-case, and 
an umbrella, at DroAvark station, sent his 
servant on Avith the rest of the luggage by 
rail, and himself took a chaise ; and, after 
one change of horses, had reached the 
Royal Oak in the state in Avhich we first 
saAV him. 

The doctor had told the people at that inn 
that he Avould look in, in the course of the 
night, some time after one o’clock, being a 
little uneasy about a possible return of the 
old yuan’s malady. 

There Avas that in the aristocratic looks 
and belongings of his patient, and in the 
A^ery fashionable address to Avhich the mes- 
sage to his daughter was transmitted, which 
induced in the mind of the learned man a 
suspicion that a “ SAvell ” might have acci- 
dentally fallen into his hands. 

By this time, thanks to the diligence of 
Louisa Diaper, every one in the house had 
been made acquainted with the fact that the 
sick man was no other than Sir Reginald 
Arden, Bart., and with many other circum- 
stances of splendor, which would not, per- 
haps, have so well stood the test of inquiry. 

The doctor and his crony, the rector — 
simplest of parsons — who had agreed to 
accompany him in this nocturnal call, being 
a curious man, as gentlemen inhabiting quiet 
villages will be — these tAA’o gentlemen noAv 
heard all this lore in the hall at a quarter 
past one, and entered the patient’s chamber 
(Avhere they found Miss Arden and her 
maid) accordingly. 

In whispers, the doctor made to Miss 
Arden a most satisfactory report. He made 
his cautious inspection of the patient, and 
again had nothing but what Avas cheery to 
say. (• 

If the rector had not prided h^self upon 
his manners, and had been content with 
one bow on withdraAving from the lady’s 
presence, they would not that night have 
heard the patient’s voice — and, perhaps, 
all things considered, so much the better. 

“ I trust, madam, in the morning Sir 
Reginald may be quite himself again. It is 


CHECKMATE. 


33 


pleasant, madam, to witness slumber so 
quiet, murmured the clerjiyman, kindly, 
and in perfect good faith. “ It is the slum- 
ber of a tranquil mind — a spirit at peace 
with itself.’’ 

Smiling kindly in making the last stiff 
bow which accompanied these happy words, 
the good man tilted over a little table behind 
him, on which stood a decanter of claret, a 
water caraffe, and two glasses, all of which 
came to the ground with a crash that 
wakened the baronet. He sat up straight 
in his bed and stared round, while the cler- 
gyman, in consternation, exclaimed — 

“ Good gracious! ” 

“Hollo! what is it?” cried the fierce, 
thin voice of the baronet. “ What the devil’s 
all this? Wliere ’s Crozier? Where ’s my 


hers was trembling with eager fury. “ Will 
some of you say what yoii.mean, or what 
you are doing, or where I am ? ” and he 
screeched anotlier sentence or two, that made 
the old clergyman very uncomfortable. 

“You arrived here. Sir Reginald, about 
six hours ago — extremely ill, sir,” said the 
doctor, who had placed himself close to his 
patient, and spoke with official authority; 
“but we have got you all right again, we 
hope: and this is the Royal Oak, the princi- 
pal hotel of Twyford, on the Dover and Lon- 
don road; and my name is Proby.” 

“And what’s all this?” cried the bai'o- 
net, snatching up one of the medicine-bottles 
from the little table by his bed, and pluck- 
ing out the cork and smelling at the fluid. 
“ Ry heaven!” he screamed, “this is the 



“will some of you say what you mean ? ” 


servant? Will you, will you, will you. some 
of you, say Avhere the devil I am?” He 
was screaming all this, and groping and 
clutching at eitlier side r)f the bed’s head for 
a bell-rope, intending to rouse the house. 
“ Where ’s Crozier, Isay? Wherethe devil ’s 
my servant? eh? He’s gone by rail, ain’t 
he? No one came with me. And where’s 
this? What is it? Are you all tongue- 
tied, have n’t you a word among you ? ” 

The clerg3mian had lifted Ids hands in 
terror at the harangue of the old man of the 
“tranquil mind.” Alice ha<l taken liis thin 
hand, standing beside him, and was speak- 
ing softly in his ear. Rut his prominent 
brown eyes were fiercely scanning the 
strangers, and the hand which clutched 
3 


Amry thing. I could not tell what d d 

taste Avas in my mouth, and here it is. Why, 
my doctor tells me — and he knoAVS his busi- 
ness — it is as much as my life’sAvorth to 
give mo anything like — like that, pah! 
assafmtida ! If my stomacli is upset with 
this filthy stuff, I give myself up ! I ’m gone. 
I shall sink, sir. Was there no one hero, 
in the name of heaven, with a grain of 
sense or a particle of pity, to prevent that 
lieast from literally poisoning me? Egad! 
I’ll make my son punish him. I’ll make 
my family hang him, if I die.” There Avas 
a quaver of misery in his shriek of fury, as 
if he Avas on the point of bursting into tears. 
“Doctor, indeed! Avho sent for him? I 
did n’t. Who gave him leave to drug me? 


34 


CHECKMATE. 


Upon my soul, I’ve been poisoned. To 
think of a creatnre in my state, dependent 
on nourishment every hour, having his di- 
gestion destroyed ! Doctor, indeed ! Pay 
him? Not I, begad,” and he clenched his 
sentence with a curse. 

But all this concluding eloquence was lost 
upon the doctor, who had mentioned, in a 
lofty “aside” to Miss Arden, that “unless 
sent for he should not call again;” and, 
with a marked politeness to her, and no 
recognition whatever of the baronet, he had 
taken his departure. 

“I’m not the doctor. Sir Reginald; I’m 
the clergyman,” said the Reverend Peter 
Sprott, gravely and timidly, for the promi- 
nent brown eyes were threatening him. 

“ Oh, the clergyman ? Oh, I see. Will you 
be 80 good as to ring the bell, please, and 
excuse a sick man giving you that trouble. 
And is there a post-oflBice near this? ” 

“Yes, sir — close by.” 

“ This is you, Alice ? I ’m glad you ’re here. 
You must write a letter this moment — a 
note to your brother. Don’t be afraid — 
I ’m better, a good deal — and tell the people, 
w’^hen they come, to get me some strong soup 
this moment, and — good evening, sir, or 
good night, or morning, or whatever it is,” 
he added, to the clergyman, who was taking 
his leave. 

“What o’clock is it?” he asked Alice. 
“Well, you’ll write to your brother to meet 
me at Mortlake. I have not seen him, now, 
for how many years? I forget. He’s in 
town, is he? Very good. And tell him it 
is perhaps the last time, and I expect him. 
I suppose he ’ll come. Say at a quarter past 
nine in the evening. The sooner it’s over' 
the better. I expect no good of it; it is 
only just to try. And I shall leave this 
early — immediately after breakfast — as 
quickly as we can. I hate it ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ON THE ROAD. 

Next morning the baronet was in high 
good humor. He has written a little remind- 
er to Lord Wynderbroke. He will expect 
him at Mortlake the day he named, to dinner. 
He remembers he promised to stay the night. 
He can offer him, still, as good a game of 
iquet as he is likely to find in his club ; and 
e almost feels that he has no excuse but a 
selfish one, for exacting the performance of 
a promise which gave him a great deal of 
pleasure. His daughter, who takes care 
of her old father, will make their tea, and 
— voild tout ! 

Sir Reginald was in particularly good 
spirits as he sent the waiter to the post-office 
with this little note. He thinks within himself 
that he never saw Alice in such good looks. 
His selfish elation waxes quite affectionate. 


and Alice never remembered him so good- 
natured. She don ’t know what to make of 
it exactly ; but it pleases her, and she looks 
all the more brilliant.. 

And now these foreign birds, whom a 
chance storm has thrown upon the hospi- 
tality of the Royal Oak, are up and away 
again. 

The old baronet and his pretty daughter, 
Louisa Diaper sitting behind, in cloaks and 
rugs, and the footman in front, to watch the 
old man’s signals, are whirling dustily along 
with a team of four horses ; for Sir Regi- 
nald’s arrangements are never economical, 
and a pair would have brought them over 
these short stages and home very nearly as 
fast. 

Lady May’s carriage pleases the old man, 
and helps his transitory good-humor ; it is 
so much more luxurious than the jolty hired 
vehicle in which he had arrived. 

Alice is permitted her thoughts to herself. 
The baronet has taken his into companion- 
ship, and is leaning back in his corner, with 
his eyes closed : and his pursed mouth, with 
its wonderful involution of wrinkles round 
it, is working unconsciously ; and his still 
dark eyebrows, now elevating, now knitting 
themselves, indicate the same activity of 
brain. 

With a silent look now and then at his 
face — for she need not ask whether Sir 
Reginald wants anything, or would like any- 
thing, or would like anything changed, for 
the baronet needs no inquiries of this kind, 
and makes people speedily acquainted with 
his wants and fancies — she occupies her 
place beside him, for the most part looking 
out listlessly from the window, and thinks 
of many things. 

The baronet opens his eyes at last, and 
says abruptly — 

“ Charming prospect ! Charming day ! 
You’ll be glad to hear, Alice, I ’m not tired ; 
I ’m making my journey wonderfully ! It is 
so pretty, and the sun so cheery. You are 
looking so well, it is quite a pleasure to look 
at you — charming ! You ’ll come to me at 
Mortlake for a few days, to take care of me, 
you know. I shall go on to Buxton in a 
week or so, and you can return to Lady 
May to-night, and come to Mortlake to-mor- 
row ; and your brother, graceless creature ! 
I suppose, will come to-night. I expect 
nothing from his visit, absolutely. He has 
been nothing to me, but a curse, all his life. 
I suppose, if there ’s justice anywhere, he’ll 
have his deserts some day. But for the 
present I put him aside — I shan’t speak 
of him. He disturbs mje. 

They drove through London over West- 
minster Bridge, the servant thinking that 
they were to go to Lady May Penrose’s in 
Burlington Terrace. 

It was the first time, that day, since he 
had talked of his son, that a black shadow 
crossed Sir Reginald’s face. He shrunk 
back. He drew up his Chinese silk muffler 


35 


CHECKMATE. 


over his chin. lie was fearful lest some 
provvling-beaked or eagle-eyed Jew should 
see his face, for Sir lleginald was just then 
in danger. 

Glancing askance under the peak of his 
travelling ,cap, he saw Talkington, with 
AV ynderbroke on his arm, walking to their 
club. 

Ilow free and fearless those happy mortals 
looked ! How the old man yearned for his 

cliat and his glass of wine at B 's, and 

his afternoon whist at W ’s ! How he 

chafed and blasphemed inwardly at the 
invisible obstacle that insurmountably inter- 
posed, and with what a fiery sting of malice 
he connected the idea of his sou with the 
fetters that bound him ! 

“ You know that man ? ” said Sir Reginald 
sharply, as he saw Mr. Longcluse raise his 
hat to her, as they passed. 

“Yes, I’ve met him pretty often atXady 
May’s.” 

“H ’m! I had not an idea that any one knew 
him. He ’s a man who might be of use to one.” 

Here followed a silence. 

“I thought, papa, you wished to go direct 
to Mortlake, and I don’t think this is the 
way,” suggested Alice. 

“ Eh ? heigho ! You ’re right, child ; upon 
my life, I was not thinking,” said Sir Regi- 
nald, at the same time signalling vehemently 
to the servant, who, having brought the car- 
riage to a stand-still, came round to the 
window. 

“We don’t stop anywhere in town ; we go 
straight to Mortlake Hall. It is beyond 
Islington. Have you ever been there? 
Well, you can tell them how to reach it.” 

And Sir Reginald placed himself again 
in his corner. 

They had not started early, and he had 
frequently interrupted their journey on vari- 
ous whimsical pretexts. He remembered 
one house, for instance, where there was a 
stock of the very best port he hud ever tast- 
ed, and then he stopped and went in, and 
after a personal interview with the proprie- 
tor, had a bottle opened, and took two glasses, 
and so paid at the rate of lialf-a-guinea each 
for them. 

It hud been an interrupted journey, late 
begun, and the sun was near its setting by 
the time they had got a mile beyond the out- 
skirts of Islington, and were drawing near 
the singular old house where their journey 
was to end. 

. Always with a melancholy presentiment, 
Alice approached Mortlake Hall. But never 
had she felt that mysterious anticipation 
more painfully than upon this occasion. If 
there be in such misgivings a prophetic force, 
was it to be justified in the coming events of 
Miss Arden’s life, which were awfully con- 
nected with that melancholy place? 

They passed a quaint little village of tall 
stone houses, among great old trees, with a 
rural and old-world air, and an ancient inn, 
widi the sign of “Guy of Warwick” — an 


inn of which we shall see more by-and-by — 
faded, and, like the rest of this little town, 
standing under the shadow of old trees. 
They entered the road, dark with double 
hedge-rows, and with a moss-grown park-wall * 
on the right, in which, in a little time, they 
reached a great iron gate with fluted pillars. 

They drove up a broad avenue, flanked 
with files of gigantic trees, and showing 
grand old timber also upon the park-like 
grounds beyond. The dusky light of evening 
fell upon these objects, and the many win- 
dows, the cornices, and the smokeless chim- 
neys of a great old house. 

You might have fancied yourself two hun- 
dred miles away from London. 

“You don’t stay here to-night, Alice. I 
wish you to return to Lady May, and give 
her the note I am going to write. You and 
she come out to dine here on Friday. If she 
makes a difficulty, I rely on you to persuade 
her. I must have some one to meet Mr. 
Longcluse. I have reasons. Also, I shall 
ask my brother David, and his ward Miss 
Maubray. I knew her father : he was a 
fool, with his head full of romance, and he 
married a very pretty woman, who was a 
devil, without a shilling on earth. The girl 
is an orphan, and David is her guardian, and 
he would like any little attention we can 
show her. And we shall ask Vivian Darnley 
also. And that will make a very suitable 
party.” 

Sir Reginald wrote his note, talking at 
intervals. 

“•You see, I want Lady May to come here 
again in a day or two, to stay only for two 
or three days. She can go into town and 
remain there all day, if she likes it. . But 
Wynderbroke will be coming, and I should 
not like him to find us quite deserted ; and 
she said she ’d come, and she may as well do 
it now as hereafter. David lives so quietly, 
we are sure of him ; and I commit May Pen- 
rose to you. You must persuade her to 
come. It will be cruel to disappoint. Her6 
is her note — I will send the rest myself. 
And now God bless you, dear Alice ! ” 

“ I am so uncomfortable at the idea of 
leaving you, papa.” Her hand was on his 
arm, and she was looking anxiously into his 
face. 

“ So, of course, you should be : only that 
I am so perfectly recovered, and I must have 
a quiet evening with Richard ; and I prefer 
your being in town to-night, and you and 
May Penrose can come out to-morrow. Good- 
by, child, God bless you ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MR. LONGCLUSE’s BOOT FINDS A TEMPORARY 
ASYLUM. 

In the papers of that morning had ap- 
peared a voluminous report of the proceed- 


36 


CHECKMATE. 


♦ 


ings of the coroner\s inquest which sat upon 
the body of the deceased Pierre Lebas. 

I shall notice but one passage of this re- 
port — the evidence which, it seems, Mr. 
Longcluse volunteered. It was given in 
these terms : — 

“ At this point of the proceedings, Mr. R. 
D. Longcluse, who had arrived about half 
an hour before, expressed a wish to be ex- 
amined. The coroner said that it would be most 
desirable to hear what a gentleman of Mr. 
Longcluse’s position had to say with respect 
to the fatal occurrence; he understood, also, 
that Mr. Longcluse had something to offer 
upon the general arrangements for the ordi- 
nary protection of life and property in Lf)n- 
don and its environs, as being inadequate. 
Mr. Longcluse was accordingly sworn, and 
deposed that he had known the deceased, 
Pierre Lebas, when he (Mr. Longcluse) was 
little more than a boy, in Paris. Lebas at 
that time let lodgings, which were neat and 
comfortable, in the Rue Victoire. He was 
a respectable and obliging man. lie had 
some other occupation besides that of letting 
lodgings, but he (Mr. Longcluse) could not 
say what it might be. "The deceased had 
accosted him at the Saloon Tavern on the 
previous evening, when the people were 
assembling to witness the billiard match 
between llood and Markham. The deceased 
seemed very glad to see the witness, and 
they had some little conversation, in the 
course of which he (the witness) advised the 
deceased to place his money, either in a 
safer pocket than that in which he had hith- 
erto kept it, or else in charge of some friend 
on whom he could depend. Witness was 
induced to urge this precaution upon the 
deceased by observing, when he had himself 
made the deceased a trifling present (ten 
pounds) by way of a stake upon the match, 
that he placed it in his coat-pocket, which 
was in the side of the skirt, and on his re- 
monstrating, he (deceased) told him that he 
had not a breast-pocket, or, in fact, any safe 
pocket. He seemed surprised when witness 
told him that there might be in the room 
persons of the worst character ; and he then, 
in considerable alarm, pointed out to him 
(witness) a man who was and had been fol- 
lowing him from place to place, he fancied, 
with a purpose. Witness observed the man, 
and saw him watch deceased, turning his 
eyes repeatedly upon him. The man had 
no companions, so far as he could see, and 
affected to be looking in a different direc- 
tion. It was sideways and stealthily that he 
was watching deceased, who had incautious- 
ly taken out and counted some of his money 
in the room. Deceased did not conceal from 
the witness his apprchensicms from this 
man, and witness advise<l him again to 
place his money in the hands of some friend 
who had a secure pocket, and recommended, 
in case his friend should object to take so 
much money into his care — Lebas having 
said he had a large sum about him — under 


the gaze of the public, that he should make 
the transfer in the smoking-room, the situa- 
tion of which he described f) him. iMr. 
Longcluse then proceeded to give an exact 
description of the man who had been dog- 
ging the deceased ; the particul§,rs were as 
follows: — ” 

Here I arrest my quotation, for I need not 
recapitulate the details of the tall man’s 
features, dress, and figure, which are al- 
ready familiar to the reader. 

In a court off* High Ilolborn there was, 
and perhaps is, a sort of coffee-shop, in the 
small drawing-rooms of wdiich, thrown into 
one room, are many small and homely 
tables, with penny and even half ]fenny pa- 
pers, and literature with startling woodcuts. 
Here working mechanics and others snatch 
a very early breakfast, and take their din- 
ners, and such as can afford time loiter their 
half-hour or so over the agreeable literature 
and cheap weekly papers. One penny morn- 
ing paper visited that place of refection, for 
three hours daily, and then flitted away to 
keep an appointment elsewhere. It was this 
dull time in that peculiar establishment — 
namely, about nine o’clock in the morning 
— and there was but one listless guest in the 
room. It was the, identical tali man in 
question. Ilis flat feet were planted on the 
bare floor, and he leaned a shoulder against 
the window-case, with a plug of tobacco in 
his jaw, as, at his leisure, he was getting 
through the coroner’s inquest on Pierre 
Lebas. 

He was smiling with half-closed eyes and 
considerable enjoyment, up to the point 
where Mr. Longcluse’s evidence Avas sud- 
denly directed upon him. There was a 
twitching frown of his eyebrow, as if from 
a sudden pain ; but his smile continued from 
habit, although his face grew paler. 

This man, whose name was Paul Davies, 
winked hard with his left eye, as he got on, 
and read fiercely Avith his right. His fiice 
Avas whiter noAv, and his smile less easy. 
It Avas a queerish' situation, he thought, and 
might lead to consequences. 

There was a little bit of a looking-glass, 
picked up at some rubbishing auction, as old 
as the hills, Avith some tarnished gilding 
about it, in the narroAV bit of Avail between 
the Avindows. Paul Davies could look at 
nothing quite straight. He looked now at 
himself in this glass, but it Avas from the 
corners of his eyes, askance, and Avith his 
sly, sleepy depression of the eyelids, as if 
he had not overmuch confidence even in his 
own shadoAv. He folded the morning paper, 
and laid it with formal precision on the 
table, as if no one had disturbed it ; and 
taking up the Halfpenny Ulustrated Broad- 
sheet of Fiction, and Avith it flourishing in 
his hand by the corner, he called the waiter 
and paid his reckoning, and Avent off SAviftly 
to his garret in another court, a quarter of a 
mile nearer to Saint Paul’s — taking an ob- 


CHECKMATE. 


37 




pcure and devious course through back-lanes 
and sequestered courts. 

When he got up to his garret, Mr. Davies 
locked his door and sat down on the side of 
his creaking settle-bed, and, in his playful 
phrase, “ put on liis considering cap.’^ 

“ That ’s a dangerous cove, that Mr. Long- 
cluse. He ’s done a bold stroke. And now 
it's him or me, I do su[»pose — him or me ; 
me or him. Come, Paul, shake up your 
knowledge-box ; I '11 not lose this cast simple, 
lie's gave a description of me. The force 
will know it. And them feet o' mine, they 
are a bit flat ; but any chap can make a pair 
of insteps with a penn'orth o' rags. I 
wouldn't care tuppence if it wasn’t for 
them pock-marks. There 's no managing 
them. A scar or a wart you may touch over 
with paint and sollible gutta-percha, or pink 
wafers and gelatine, but pock-marks is too 
many for any man.” 

lie was looking with some anxiety in the 
triangular fragment of looking-glass — bal- 
anced on a nail in the window-case — at his 
features. 

” I can take off them whiskers, and the 
long neck he makes so much of. If it was 
as long as an oystrich, with four[)enn’orth 
of cotton waste and a cabbage-net, I 'd make 
a bull of it, and run my shoulders up to my 
ears. I'll take the whiskers oif, anyhow. 
Th{j,t 's no treason ; and he ma}^ n't identify 
mo. If I’m not had up for a fortnight my 
hair would be grew a bit, and that would be 
a lift. But a fello w must think twice before 
he begins disguisin’. Juries smells a rat. 
ilmTsoniever, a cove may shave, and no harm 
done ; or his hair may grow a bit, and how 
can he help it? Longcluse knows what he’s 
about. He ’s a sharp lad, but for all that 
Paul Davies 'ill sweat him yet.” 

Mr. Davies turned the button of his old- 
fashioned window, and let it down. lie shut 
out his two scarlet geraniums, which accom- 
panied him in all his changes from one lodg- 
ing to another. 

“Suppose he tries the larceny — that's 
another thing he may do, seeing what my 
lay is. It wouldn’t do to lose that thing; 
no more would it answer to let them find it.” 

This last idea seemed to cause Paul Davies 
a good deal of serious uneasiness. He began 
looking about at the walls, low down near 
the skirting, and up near the ceiling, tap- 
ping now and then with his knuckles, and 
sounding the plaster as a doctor would the 
chest of a patient. He was not satisfied. 
He scratched his head, and fiddled with his 
ear, and plucked it dubiously, and winked 
hard at his geranium through the window. 

Paul Davies knew that the front garret 
was not let. He dpened his door and listen- 
ed. Then he entered that room. I think he 
had a notion of changing his lodgings, if 
only he could find what he wanted. That 
was such a hiding-place as professional 
seekers were not likely to discover. But he 
Could not satisfy himself. 


A thought struck him, however, and he 
went into the lobby again ; he got on a chair 
and pushed open the skylight, aud out went 
Mr. Davies on the roof. 

lie looked and poked about here. He 
looked to the neighboring roofs, lest any eye 
should be upon him; but there was no one. 
A maid hanging clothes upon a line, on a 
sort of balcony, midway down the next 
house, was singing “ Tlie Ratcatcher's 
Daughter,” he thought rather well — so 
well, indeed, that he listened for two whole 
verses — but that did not signify. 

Paul Davies kneeled down, and loosed and 
reuKwed, one after the other, several slates 
near the lead gutter, between the gablCs ; 
and, having made a sufficient opening in the 
roof for his purpose, he let himself down 
lightly through the skylight, entered his 
room, and locked himself up. 

He then unlocked his trunk and took from 
under his clothes, where it lay, a French 
boot — the veritable boot of Mr. Longcluse 
— which, for greater security, he popped 
under the coarse coverlet of his bed. He 
next took from his trunk a large piece of 
paper, which, being unfolded at the window, 
disclosed a rude drawdng with a sentence or 
two underneath’, ^nd three signatures, with 
a date preceding. 

Having read this document over twice or 
thrice, with a rather menacing smile, he 
rolled it up in brown paper and thrust it 
into the foot of the boot, which he popped 
under the coverlet and bolster. He then 
opened his door wide. Too long a silence 
might possibly have seemed mysterious, and 
called up prying eyes, so, Mdiile he filled his 
pipe with tobacco, lie whistled “ Villikins and 
his Dinah” lustily. He was very cautious 
about this boot and paper. 

He got on his great-coat and felt hat, and 
took his pipe and some matches — the enjoy- 
ing a quiet smoke without trouliling otliers 
with the perfume was a natural way of ao- 
countingfor his visit to the roof. He listened. 
He slipped his boot and its contents into his 
capacious great-coat pocket, with a rag of 
old carpet tied round it ; and then, whistling 
still, cheerily, he mounted the roof again, 
and placed the precious parcel* within the 
roof, which he, having some skill as a slater, 
proceeded carefully and quickly to restore. 

Down came Mr. Davies now, and shaved 
off his whiskers. Then he walked out, with 
a bundle consisting of the coat, waistcoat, 
and blue necktie he had worn on the even- 
ing of Lebas’ murder. He was going to pay 
a visit to his mother, a venerable green- 
grocer, who lived near the Tower of London ; 
and on his way he pledged these articles at 
two distinct and very remote paAvnbrokers’, 
intending on his return to release, Avith the 
proceeds, certain corresponding articles of 
Ills Avardrobe, noAV in ward in another estab- 
lishment. 

These measures of obliteration he was 
taking quietly. 


38 


CHECKMATE. 



His visit to his mother, a very honest old 
woman, who believed him to be the most, 
virtuous, agreeable, and beautiful young 
man extant, was made with a very particular 
purpose. 

“ Well, ma’am,’’ he said, in reply to the 
old lady’s hospitable greeting, “ I Avon’t 
refuse a pot of half-and-half and a couple of 
eggs, and I’ll go so far as a cut or two 
of bacon, bein’ ’ungry ; and I’m a-goin’ to 
write a paper of some consequence, if you ’ll 
obleege me with a sheet of foolscap and a 
g^en and ink ; and I may as well write it 
while the things is a-gettin’ ready, accordin’ 
to your kind intentions.” 

And accordingly Mr. Paul Davies sat in 
silence, looking very important — as he 
always did when stationery was before him 
— at a small table, in a dark back room, 
and slowly penned a couple of pages of 
foolscap. 

“ And now,” said he, producing the docu- 
ment after his repast, “will you be so good, 
ma’am, as to ask Mr. Sildyke and Mrs. 
Rumble to come down and witness my sign- 
ing of this, which I mean to leave it in your 
hands and safe keepin’ under lock and key, un- 
til I take it away, or otherwise tells you Avhat 
you must do with it. It is a police paper, 
ma’am, and may be wanted any time. But 
you keep it dark till I tells you.” 

This settled, Mr. Sildyke and Mrs. Rum- 
ble arrived obligingly; and Paul Davies, 
with an adroit Avink at his mother — who 
was a little shocked and much embarrassed 
by the ruse, being a truth-loving woman — 


told them thathere was his last will and testa- 
ment, and he wanted only that they should 
Avitness his signature: Avhich, Avith the date, 
Avas duly accomplished. Paul Davies was, 
indeed, a man of that genius which requires 
to proceed by stratagem, cherishing an ab- 
horrence of straight lines, and a picturesque 
love of the curved and angular. So, if Mr. 
liongcluse Avas doing his duty at one end of 
the town, Mr. Davies, at the other, was by 
no means wanting in activity, or, according 
to the level of his intellect and experience, 
in wisdom. 

We have recurred to these scenes in which 
Mr. Paul Davies figures, because it Avas in- 
dispensable to the reader’s right understand- 
ing of some eA-ents that follow, that he should 
be apprised of these occurrences. 

Be so good, then, as to find Sir Reginald 
exactly Avhere you left him, standing on the 
steps of Mortlake Hall. 

His daughter would have stayed, but he 
would not hear of it. 

“ You can come here on Friday, and tell 
me all the news. I have more to do than I 
can get through in the irfterval. I’m quite 
well — those little things produce no after- 
effects ; and don’t say a word to your brother. 
Observe what I say — not one word to him 
respectinii; that little illness on my way from 
Dover. I wish you to remember ihat'^ 

Alice was trained to obey very implicitly. 
She did not like the idea of leaving her 
father, but his imperious Avill ruled at Mort- 
lake : and, once determined by a Avord from 
him, no question Ava.s debatable. 


CHECKMATE. 


39 


He stood on the steps and smirked a yel- 
low and hollow farewell, waving his hand 
as the carriage drove away. Then he turned 
and entered the lofty hall, in which the light 
was already failing. 

Sir Reginald did not like the trouble of 
mounting the stairs. His bed-room and 
sitting-room were on a level with the hall. 
As soon as he came in, the gloom of his old 
prison-house began to overshadow him, and 
his momentary cheer and good-humor dis- 
appeared. 

“Where is Tansey? I suppose she^s in 
her bed, or grumbling with the toothache,’^ 
he snarled to the footman. “And where 
the devil’s Crozier? I have the fewest and 
the worst servants, I believe, of any man in 
England.” 

He poked open the door of his sitting-room 
with the point of his walking-stick. 

“ Nothing ready, I dare swear,” he qua- 
vered, and shot a peevish and fiery glance 
round it. * 

Things were not looking quite so badly 
as he expected. There was just the little 
bit of expiring fire in the grate which he 
liked, even in summer. Ilis sealskin slip- 
pers were on the hearth-rug, and his easy- 
chair was pushed into its proper place, 

“ Ila ! Crozier, at last ! Here, get off this 

coat and these mufflers, and I was 

devilish near dying in that vile chaise. I 
don’t remember how they got me into the 
inn. There, don’t mind condoling. You’re 
privileged, but don’t do that. As near dying 
as possible — rather an awkward business 
for useless old servants here, if I had. I ’ll 
dress in the next room. My son ’s coming 
this evening. Admit him, mind. I ’ll see 
him. How long is it since we met last? 
Two years, egad! And Lord Wynderbroke 
has his dinner here — I don’t know what 
day, but some day very soon ; and don’t 
let the people here go to sleep. Remem- 
ber!” 

And so on, with his old servant, he talked, 
and sneered, and snarled, and established 
himself in his sitting-room, with his reviews, 
and his wine, and his newspapers. 

Night fell over dark Mortlake Hall, and 
over the blazing city of London. Sir Regi- 
nald listened, every now and then, for the 
approach of his son. Talk as he might, he 
did expect something — and a great deal — 
from the coming interview. Two years 
without a home, without an allowance, with 
no provision except a hundred and fifty 
pounds a year, might well have tamed that 
wilfiil beast! 

With the tremor of acute suspense the old 
man watched and listened. Was it a good 
or an ill sign his being so late? 

The city of London, with its still roaring 
traffic and bhaze of gas-lamps, did not con- 
trast more powerfully with the silent shadoAVS 
of the forest-grounds of Mortlake, than did 
the drawing-room of Lady May Penrose, 
brilliant with a profusion of light, and reso- 


nant with the gay conversation of inmates, 
all disposed to enjoy themselves, with the 
dim and vast room in which Sir Reginald 
sat silently communing with his own dismal 
thoughts. 

Nothing so contagious as gayety. Alice 
Arden, laughingly, was “ making her book ” 
rather prematurely, in dozens of pairs of 
gloves, for the Derby. Lord Wynderbroke 
was deep in it. So was Vivian Darnley. 

“ Your brother and I are to take the reins, 
turn about. Lady May says. He ’s a crack 
whip. He ’s better than I, I think,” said 
Vivian to Alice Arden. 

“You mustn’t upset us, though. I am so 
afraid of you crack whips ! ” said Alice. 
“Nor let your horses run away with us; 
I ’ve been twice run away Avith already.” 

“ I don’t the least wonder at Miss Arden’s 
being run away with very often,” said Lord 
Wynderbroke, Avith all the archness of a 
polite man of fifty. 

“Very prettily said, Wynderbroke,” 
smiled Lady May. “ And where is- your 
brother? I thought he’d have turned up to- 
night,” asked she of Alice. 

“ I quite forgot. He was to see papa this 
evening. They warkted to talk over some- 
thing together.” 

“ Oh, I see ! ” said Lady May, and she 
became thoughtful. 

What Avas the. exact nature of the interest 
Avhich good Lady May undoubtedly took in 
Richard Arden? Was it quite so motherly 
as years might warrant? At that time 
people laughed over it, and were curious to 
see the progress of the comedy. 

Here was light and gayety — light within, 
lamps without ; spirited talk in young an- 
ticipation of coming days of pleasure ; and 
outside, the roll of carriage-wheels making 
a humming.bass to this merry treble. 

Over the melancholy precincts of Mort- 
lake the voiceless darkness of night descends 
with unmitigated gloom. The centre — the 
brain of this dark place — is the house ; and 
in a large dim room, near the smouldering 
fire, sits the image that haunts rather than 
inhabits it. 


CHAPTER XV. 

FATHER AND SON. 

Sir Reginald Arden had fallen into a 
doze, as he sat by the fire Avith his Revue des 
Deux MondeSy slipping betAveen his finger 
and thumb, on his knees. He was recalled 
by Crozier’s voice,. and looking up, he suaa'-, 
stand^ig near the door, as if in some slight 
hesitation, a figure not seen for two years 
before. 

For a moment Sir Reginald doubted his 
only half-awaKened senses. Was that hand- 
some oval fiice, with large, soft eyes, with 
such brilliant lips, and the dark-broAvn 
moustache, so tine and silken, that had 


40 


CHECKMATE. 


never known a razor, an unsubstantial por- 
trait hunj 5 in the dim air, or his living son ? 

There were perplexity and surprise in the 
old man’s stare. 

“ I should have been here before, sir, but 
your letter did not reach me until an hour 
ago,” said Richard Arden. 

Ry heaven ! Dick ? And so you came ! 
I believe I was asleep. Give me your hand. 
I hope, Dick, we may yet end this miserable 
quarrel happily. Father and son can have 
no real interests apart.” 

Sir Richard Arden extended his thin 
hand, and smiled invitingly but rather 
darkly on his son. 

Graceful and easy this young man was, 
and yet embarrassed, as he placed his hand 
within his father’s. 

“ You ’ll take something, Dick, won’t 
you?” 

“Nothing, sir, thanks.” 

Sir Reginald was stealthily reading his 
face. At last he began circuitously — 

“ I ’ve a little bit of news to tell you 
about Alice. How long shall I allow you to 
guess what it is? ” 

“ I ’m the worst guesser in the world — 
pray don’t wait for me, sir.” 

“Well, I have in my desk there — would 
you mind puttitig it on the table here? — a 
letter from Wynderbroke. You know him ?” 

“ Yes, a little.” 

“Well, Wynderbroke writes to ask my 
leave to marry your sister, if she will con- 
sent ; and he says all he will do, which is 
very handsome — very generous indeed. 
Wait a moment. Yes, here it is. Read 
that.” 

Richard Arden did read the letter, with 
open eyes and breathless interest. The old 
man’s eyes were upon him as he did so. 

“ Weil, Richard, what do you think ? ” 

“ There can be but one opinion about it. 
Nothing can be more handsome. Every- 
thing suitable. I only hope that Alice will 
not be foolish.” 

“ She shan’t be that, I ’ll t.ake care,” said 
the old man, locking down his desk again 
upon the letter. 

“ It might possibly be as well, sir, to pre- 
pare her a little at first. I may possibly be 
of some little use, and so may Lady May. 
I only mean that it might hardly be expedi- 
ent to make it from the first a matter of au- 
thority, because she has romantic ideas, and 
she is spirited.” 

“I’ll sleep upon it. I shan’t see her 
again till to-morrow evening. She does not 
care about any one in particular, I sup- 
pose ? ” , 

“ Not that I know of,” said Rieharc^. 

“ You’ll find it will all be right — it will 
— all right. It shall be right,” said Sir 
Reginald. And then there was a silence. 

lie was meditating the other business he 
had in hand, and again circuitously he pro- 
ceeded. 

“ What’s going on at the opera ? Who is 


your great danseuse at present?” inquired 
the baronet, with a glimmer of a leer. “ I 
haven’t seen a ballet for more than six years. 
Aod why? I need n’t tell you. You know 
the miserable life I lead. Egad ! there are 
fellows placed everywhere to watch me. 
There would be an execution in this house 
this night, if the miserable tables and chairs 
were not my brolher David’s property. 
Upon my life. Craven, my attorney, had to 
serve two notices on the sheriff in one term, 
to caution him not to sell your uncle’s furni- 
ture for my debts. I should n’t have had a 
joint-stool to sit down on, if it hadn’t been 
for that. And I had to get out of the rail- 
M^ay carriage, by heaven ! for fear of arrest, 
and come home — if home I can call this 
ruin — by posting all the way, except a few 
miles. I did not dare to tell Craven I was 
coming back. I wrote from Twyford, where 
I — I — took a fancy to sleep last night, to 
no human being but yourself. My comfort 
is that they and all the world believe that 
I ’m still in France. It is a pleasant state 
of things ! ” 

“ I am grieved, sir, to think you suffer so 
much.” 

“ I know it. I knew it. I know you are, 
Dick,” said the old man, eagerly. “And 
my life is a perfect hell. I can nowhere in 
England find rest for the sole of, my foot. I 
am suffering perpetually the most miserable 
mortifications, and the tortures of the damned. 
I know you are sorry. It can’t be pleasant 
to you to see your father the miserable out- 
cast, and fugitive, and victim he so often is. 
And I ’ll say distinctly — I ’ll say at once — 
for it was with this one purpose I sent for 
you — that no son with a particle of human 
feeling, with a grain of conscience, or an 
atom of principle, could endure to see it, 
when he knew that by a stroke of his pen 
he could undo it all, and restore a miserable 
parent to life and liberty ! Now, Richard, 
you have my mind. I have concealed noth- 
ing, and I ’m sure. Dick, 1 know, I know you 
won’t see your father perish 'by inches, 
rather than sign the warrant for his libera- 
tion. For God’s sake, Dick, my boy, speak 
out! Have you the heart to reject your 
miserable fatlier’s petition? Do you wish 
me to kneel to you ? I love you, Dick, 
although you don’t admit it. I ’ll kneel to 
you, Dick — I’ll kneel to you. I’ll go on 
my knees to you.” 

His hands were clasped; he made a move- 
ment. His great, prominent eyes were fixed 
on Richard Arden’s face, which he was read- 
ing with a great deal of eagerness, it is true, 
but also with a dark and narrow shrewd- 
ness. 

“ Good heaven, sir, don’t stir, I implore ! 
If you do, I must leave the room,” said 
Richard, embarrassed to a degree that 
amounted to agitation. “ And I must tell 
you, sir — it is very painful, but I could not 
help it, necessity drove me to it — if I were 
ever so desirous, it is out of my power now. 


CHECKMATE. 


41 


I have dealt with my reversion. I have exe- 
cuted a deed.’’ * 

“Yau have been with the Jews! ’’cried 
the old man, jumping to his feet, “You 
have been dealing, by way of post obit, with 
my estate ! ” 

Richard Arden looked down. Sir Regin- 
ald was as nearly white as his 3 ’ellow tint 
would allow ; his large eyes were gleaming 
fire — he looked as if he would have snatched 
the poker, and brained his son. 

“But what could I do, sir? I had no 
other resource. I was forbidden your house; 
I had no money.” 

“ You lie, sir ! ” yelled the old man, with 
a sudden flash, and a hammer of his thin 
trembling fist on the table. “ You had a 
hundred and fifty pounds a year of your 
mother’s.” 

“But that, sir, could not possibly support 
any one. I was compelled to act as I did. 
You really, sir, left me no choice.” # 

“ Now, now, now, now, now ! you ’re not 
to run away with the thing; you ’re not to 
run away with it ; you shan’t run away with 
it, sir. You could have made a submission, 
you know you could. I Avas open to be re- 
conciled at any time — always too ready. 
You had only to do as you ought to have 
done, and I ’d have received you with open 
arms ; you know I would — I would — you 
had only to unite our interests in the estates, 
and I ’d have done everything to make you 
happy, and you know it. But you have 
taken the step — you have done it, and it is 
irrevocable. You have done it, and you ’ve 
ruined me; and 1 pray to God you have 
ruined yourself! ” 

With every sinew quivering, the old man 
was pulling the bell-rope violently with his 
left hand. Over his shoulder, on his son, he 
glanced almost maniacally. “ Turn him 
out!” he screamed to Crozier, stamping; 
“ put him out by the collar. Shut the door 
upon him, and lock it ; and if he ever dares 
to call here again, slam it in his face. I 
have done with him forever ! ” 

Richard Arden had already left the room, 
and this closing passage was lost on him. 
But he heard the old man’s voice as he 
walked along the corridor, and it was still 
in his ears as he passed the hall-door ; and. 
running down the steps, he jumped into his 
cab. 

Crozier held the cab-door open, and wished 
Mr. Richard a kind good-night. lie stood 
on the steps to see the last of the Cab as it 
drove down the shadowy aA^enue and Avas 
lost in gloom. ' He sighed heavily. What 
a broken family it was ! 

He was an old’ servant, born on their 
northern estate — loyal, and someAvhat rus- 
tic — and, certainly, had the baronet been 
less in want of money, not exactly the ser- 
vant he would have chosen. 

“ The old gentleman cannot last long.” he 
said, as he folloAved the sound of the retreat- 
ing wheels Avith his gaze, “and then Master 


Richard will take his turn, and Avhat one 
began the other will finish. It is all up with 
the Ardens. Sir Reginald ruined, Master • 
Harry murdered, and Master David turned 
tradesman ! There ’s a curse on the old 
house.” 

He heard the baronet’s tread faintly, 
pacing the floor in agitation, as he passed 
his door ; and when he reached the house- - 
keeper’s room, that old lady, Mjs. Tansey, 
was alone and all of a tremble, standing at 
the door. Before her dim staring eyes had 
risen an oft-remembered scene: the iv^y-coA'- 
ered gate-house at Mortlake Hall ; the cold 
moon glittering down through the leafless 
branches ; the gray horse on its side across 
the gig-shaft, and the two villains — one 
rifling and the other murdering poor Henry 
Arden, the baronet’s gay and reckless 
brother. 

“ Lord, Mr. Crozier! Avhat’s crossed Sir 
Reginald?” she said, huskily, grasping the 
servant’s wrist with her lean hand. “ Mas- 
ter Dick, I do suppose. I thought he Avas 
to come no more. They quarrel ahvays. 

I ’m like to faint, Mr. Crozier.” 

“ Sit ye doAvn, Mrs. Tansey, ma’am ; you 
should take just a thimbleful of something. 
What has frightened you ? ” 

“There’s a scritch in Sir Reginald’s 
A'oice — mercy on us! — Avhen he raises it 
so ; it is the veiy cry of poor Master Harry 
— his last cry, when the knife pierced him. 

I ’ll never forget it ! ” 

The old woman clasped her fingers over 
her eyes, and shook her head slowljr. 

“ Well, that’s over and ended this many 
a day, and past cure. We need not fret 
ourselves no more about it — ’tis thirty years 
since.” 

“ Two-and-twenty the day o’ the Longden 
steeple-chase. I ’ve a right to remember it.” 

She closed her eyes again. 

“ Why can’t they keep apart ? ” she re- 
sumed. “ If father and son can’t look one 
another in the face without quarrelling, bet- 
ter they should turn their backs on one 
another for life. Why need they come under 
one roof? The world’s Avide enough.” 

“So it is — and no good meeting and 
argufying ; for Mr. Dick will never open 
the estate,” remarked Mr. Crozier. 

“ And more shame for him ! ” said Mrs. 
Tansey. “ He ’s breaking his father’s heart. 
Ittroubles him more,”she added, in achanged 
tone, “I’m thinking, than ever poor Master 
Harry’s death did. There’s none living of 
Ills kith or kin cares about itnoAV but Master 
David. He ’ll neA^er let it rest while he 
lives.” 

“ He 7nay let it rest, for he’ll ncA^er make 
no hand of it,” said Crozier. “Would you 
object, ma’am, to my making a glass of 
something hot? — you’re gone very pale.” 

Mrs. Tansey assented, and the conversa- 
tion grcAv more comfortable. And so the 
night closed over the passions and the mel- 
ancholy of Mortlake Hall. 


42 


CHECKMATE. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A MIDNIGHT MEETING. 

A COUPLE of days passed ; and now I must 
ask you to suppose yourself placed, at night, 
in the centre of a vast heath, undulating 
here and there like a sea arrested in a 
ground-swell, lost in a horizon of monoton- 
ous darkness all round. Here and there 
rises a scrubby hillock of furze, black and 
rough as the head of a monster. The eye 
aches as it strains to discover objects or 
measure distances over the blurred and black 
expanse. 

Here stand two trees jpretty near together 
— one in thick foliage, a black elm, with a 
funereal and plume-like stillness, and blot- 
ting out many stars with its gigantic canopy ; 
the other, about fifty paces off, a withered 
and half barkless fir, with one white branch 
left, stretching forth like the arm of a gibbet. 
Nearly under this is a tint rock, with one 
end slanting downward, and half buried in 
the ferns and the grass that grow about that 
spot. 

One other fir stands a little way off, smaller 
than these two trees, which in daylight are 
conspicuous far aw'^y as landmarks on a 
trackless v^aste. 

Overhead the stars are blinking, but the 
desolate landscape lies beneath in shapeless 
obscurity, like drifts of black mist melting 
together into one wide vague sea of dark- 
ness that forms the horizon. 

Over this comes, in fitful meanings, a 
melancholy wind. The eye stretches vainly 
to define the objects that fancy sometimes 
suggests, and the ear is strained to discrimi- 
nate the sounds, real or unreal, that seem to 
mingle in the uncertain distance. 

If you can conjure up all this, and the 
superstitious freaks that in such a situation 
imagination will play in even the hardest 
and coarsest natures, you have a pretty dis- 
tinct idea of the feelings and surroundings 
of a tall man who lay that night his length 
under the blighted tree I have mentioned, 
stretched on its roots, with his chin support- 
ed on his hands, and looking vaguely into 
the darkness. 

He had been smoking, but his pipe was 
out now, and he had no occupation but that 
of forming pictures on the dark background, 
and listening to the moan and rush of the 
distant wind, and imagining sometimes a 
voice shouting, sometimes the drumming of 
a horse's hoofs approaching over the plain. 

There was a chill in the air that made 
this man now and then shiver a little, and 
get up and take a turn back and forward, 
and stamp sharply as he did so, to keep the 
blood stirring in his legs and feet. 

Then down he would lie again, with his 
elbows on the ground, and his hands prop- 
ing his chin. Perhaps he brought his 
ead near the ground thinking that thus he 
could hear distant sounds more sharply. 


He was growing impatient, and well he 
might. • 

The moon now began to break through the 
mist in fierce red over the far horizf^n. A 
streak of crimson, that glowed without illu- 
minating anything, showed through the dis- 
tant cloud close along the level of the heath. 
•Even this was a cheer, like a red ember or 
two in a pitch-dark room. 

Very far away he thought now he heard 
the tread of a horse. One can hear miles 
away over that level expanse of death-like 
silence. He pricked his ears, he raised him- 
self on his hands, and listened with open 
mouth. lie lost the sound, but on leaning 
his head again to the ground that vast sound- 
ing-board carried its vibration once more to 
his ear. 

It was the canter of a horse upon the heath. 

He was doubtful whether it was approach- 
ing, for the sound subsided sometimes ; but 
afterward it was renewed, and gradually he 
became certain that it was coming nearer. 
And now, like a huge, red-hot dome of cop- 
per, the moon rose above the level strips of 
cloud that lay upon the horizon of the heath, 
and objects began to reveal themselves. The 
stunted fir, that had looked to the fancy of 
the solitary watcher like a ghostly police- 
man, with arm and truncheon raised, just 
starting in pursuit, now showed some lesser 
branches, and was more satisfactorily a tree ; 
distances became measurable, though not 
et accurately, by the eye ; and ridges and 
illocks caught faintly the dusky light, and 
threw blurred but deep shadows backward. 

The tread of the horse approaching had 
become a gallop as the light improved, and 
horse and horseman were soon visible. 

Paul Davies stood erect, and took up a 
position a few steps in advance of the 
blighted tree at whose foot he had been 
stretched. 

The figure, seen against the dusky glare 
of the moon, would have answered well 
enough for one of those hlghn aymen who in 
old times made the heath famous. Ills low- 
crowned felt hat, his short coat with a cape 
to it, and the leather casings, which looked* 
like jack-boots, gave this horseman, seen in 
dark outline against the glow, a character 
not unpicturesque. 

With a sudden strain of the bridle, the 
gaunt rider pulled up before the man who 
awaited him. 

“What are you doing there?" said the 
horseman, roughly. 

“ Counting the stars," answered he. 

Thus the signs and countersigns were ex- 
changed, and the stranger said — 

“ You 're alone, Paul Davies, I take it." 

“No company but ourselves, mate," an- 
swered Davies. 

“You're up to half-a-dozen dodges, Paul, 
and knows how to lime a twig ; that 's your 
little game, you know. This here tree is 
clean enough, but that 'ere has a hatful o' 
leaves on it." 


CHECKMATE 


43 





“ ‘ WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE ? ^ SAID THE HORSEMAN/^ 


“ I did nH put them there/’ said Paul, a 
little sulkily. 

“ Well, no. I do suppose a sight o’ you 
would n’t'exactly put a tree in leaf, or a rose- 
bush in blossom; nor even make wegital)Ies 
grow. More like to blast ’em, like that rum 
un over jmur head.” 

“ Wliat’s up?” asked the ex-detective. 

“Jest this — there’s leaves enough for a 
bird to roost there, so this won’t do. Now, 
then, . move on you with me.” 

As the gaunt rider thus spoke, his long 
red beard was blowing this way and that in 
the breeze ; and he turned his horse, and 
walked him toward that lonely tree in which, 
as he lay gazing on its black outline, Paul 
had fancied the shape of a phantom police- 
man. 

“ I don’t care a cuss,” said Davies. “ I ’m 
half sorry I came a leg to meet yer.” 

“‘Growlin’, eh?” said the horseman. 

“ I wish you was as cold as me, and 
you ’d growl a bit, maybe, yourself,” said 
Paul. “ I ’m jolly cold.” 

“ Cold, are ye? ” 

“ Cold as a lock-up.” 

“Why didn’t ye fetch a line o’ the old 
author with you ? ” asked the rider — mean- 
ing brandy. 

“ I had a pipe or two.” 

“Who’d a guessed we was to have a 
night like this in summer-time?” 

“ I do believe it freezes all the year round 
in this queer place.” 

“ Would ye like a drop of the South-Sea 


Mountain (gin)?” said the stranger, pro- 
ducing a flask from his pocket, which Paul 
Davies took with a great deal of good-will, 
much to the donor’s content, for he wished 
to find that gentleman in good humor in the 
conversation that was to follow. 

“ Drink what ’s there, mate. D’ye like 
it?” 

“ It ain’t to be by no means sneezed at,” 
said Paul Davies. 

The horseman looked back over his shoul- 
der. Paul Davies remarked that his shoul- 
ders were round enough to amount almost to 
a deformity. lie and his companion were 
now a long way from the tree whose foliage 
he ieared might afford cover to some eaves- 
dropper. 

“This tree will answer. I suppose you 
like a post to clap your back to while we are 
palaverin’,” said the rider. “ Make a fiiiish 
of it, Mr. Davies,” he continued, as that 
person presented the half-emptied flask to 
his hand. “ I ’m as hot as steam, myself, 
and I ’d rather have a smoke by-and-by.” 

He touched the bridle here, and the horse 
stood still, and the rider patted his reeking 
neck, as he stooped with a shake of his oars 
and a snort, and began to sniff the scant herb- 
age at his feet. 

“ I don’t mind if I have another pull,” said 
Paul, replenishing the goblet that fitted over 
the bottom of the flask. 

“ Fill it again, and no heel-taps,” said his 
companion. 

Mr. Davies sat down, with his mug in his 


44 


CHECKMATE. 


hand, on the ground, and his back against 
the tree. Had there been a donkey near, to 
personate the immortal Dapple, you might 
have fancied, in that uncertain gloom, the 
Knight and Squire of La Mancha overtaken 
by darkness, and making one of their adven- 
turous bivouacs under the boughs of the 
tree. 

“What you saw in the papers three days 
ago did give you a twist, I take it ? ” ob- 
served the gentleman on horseback, with a 
grin that made the red bristles on his upper 
lip curl upward and twist like worms. 

“ 1 can’t tumble to a right guess what 
you means,” said Mr. Davies. 

“ Come, Paul, that won’t never do. You 
read every line of that there inquest on the 
French cove at the Saloon, and you have by 
rote every word Mr. Longcluse said. It 
must be a queer turning of the tables, for a 
clever chap like you to have to look slippy, 
for fear other dogs should lag you.” 

“’Tain’t me that ’ill be lookin’ slippy, as 
you and me well knows ; and it ’s jest 
because you knows it well you ’re here. I 
suppose it ainT for love of me quite?” 
sneered Paul Davies. 

“ I don’t care a rush for Mr. Longcluse, 
no more nor I care for you ; and I see he ’s 
goin’ where he pleases. lie made a speech 
in yesterday’s pgper, at the.meetin’ at the 
Surrey Gardens. He was canvassin’ for 
Parliament down in Derbyshire a week 
ago ; and he printed a letter to the electors 
only yesterday, lie don’t care two pins for 
you.” 

“ A good many rows o’ pins, I ’m thinkin’,” 
sneered Mr. Davies. 

“Thinkin’ won’t make a loaf, Mr. Davies. 
Many a man has bin too clever, and ihovght 
himself into the block-house. You ’re making 
too tine a game, Mr. Davies; a playin’ a bit 
too much with edged tools, and iiddlin’ a bit 
too freely with fire. You ’ll burn your 
lingers, and cut ’em too, do ye mind? unless 
you be advised, and close the game where 
you stand to win, as I rather think you do 
now.” 

“ So do I, mate,” said Paul Davies, w'ho 
could play at brag as well as his neighbor. 

“ I ’m on another lay, a safer one by a 
long sight. My maxim is the sarne as yours, 
‘ Grab all you can ; ’ but 1 do it safe, d’ye 
see? You are in a. fair way to end your 
days on the twister.” 

“ Not if I knows it,” said Paul Davies. 
“ I ’m afeared o’ no man livin’. Who can 
say black’s the white o’ my eye? Do ye 
take me for a child? What do ye take me 
for ? ” 

“ I take you for the man that robbed and 
done for the French cove in the Saloon. 
That’s the child I take ye for,” answered 
the horseman, cynically. 

“You lie! You don’t! You know I 
han’t a pig of his money, and never hurt a 
hair of his head. You say that to rile me, 
jest.” 


“ Why should I care a cuss whether you *re 
riled or no? Do you think I want to get 
anything out o’ yer ? I knows everything 
as well as you, do yourself. You take me 
for a queer gill, I ’m thinking ; that’s not 
my lay. I would n’t wait here while you ’d 
walk round my boss to have every secret 
you ever know’d.” 

“ A queer gill, mayhap. I think I know 
you,” said Mr. Davies, archly, 

“You do, do ye? Well, come, who do 
you take me for?” said the stranger, turn- 
ing toward him, and sitting erect in the 
saddle, with his hand on his thigh, to afford 
him the amplest view of his face and figure.. 

“ Then 1 take you for Mr. Longcluse,” said 
Paul Davies, with a wag of his head. 

“ For Mr. Longcluse ! ” echoed the horse- 
man, with a boisterous laugh. “ Well, 
there’s a guess to tumble to! The worst 
guess I ever heer’d made. Did you ever see 
him? Why, there’s not two bones in our 
two bodies the same length, and not two 
inches of our two faces alike. Be my soul, 
it ’s well for you it ain’t him, for I think 
he ’d a shot ye ! ” 

The rider lifted his hand from his coat- 
pocket, as he said this, but there was no 
weapon in it. Mistaking his intention, i)ow- 
ever, Paul Davies skipped behind the tree, 
and levelled a revolver at him. 

“ Down with that, you fool ! ” cried the 
horseman. “ There ’s nothing here.” And 
he gave his horse the spurs, and made him 
plunge to a little distance, as he held up his 
right hand. “ But I ’ra not such a fool as to 
meet a cove like you without the lead towels, 
too, in case you should try that dodge.” 
And dipping his hand swiftly into his pocket 
again, he also showed in the air the glimmer- 
ing barrels of a pistol. “If you must be 
pullin’ out your barkers every minute, and 
can’t talk like a man, where’s the good of 
coming all this way to palaver with a cove. 
It ain’t not tuppence to me. Crack away if 
you likes it, and see who shoots best ; or, if 
you likes it better, 1 don’t mind if I get 
down and try who can hit hardest t’other 
way, and you ’ll find my fist tastes very 
strong of the hammer.” 

“ 1 thought you were up for mischief,” 
said Davies, “ and I won’t be polished off 
simple, that ’s all. It ’s best to keep as, we 
are. and no nearer; we can hear one another 
well enough where we stand.” 

“ It ’s a bargain,” said the stranger, “and 
I don’t care a cuss who- you take me for. 
I ’m not Mr. Longcluse ; but you ’re wel- 
come, if it pleases you, to give me bis name, 
and 1 wish I could have the old bloke’s tin 
as easy. Now here ’s my little game, and I 
don’t find it a bad one. When two gentle- 
men — we ’ll say, for instance, you and Mr. 
Longcluse — differs in opinion (you says he 
did a certain thing, and he says he didn’t, 
or goes tlie whole hog and says you did it, 
and not him), it’s plain, if the matter is to 
1 be settled amigable, it ’s best to have a man 


CHECKMATE. 


45 


as knows what he ’s about, and can find out 
the cove as threatens the rich fellow, and 
deal with him handsome, according to cir- 
cumstances. My terms is moderate. I 
takes five shillins in the pound, and not a 
pig under ; and that puts you and I in the 
same boat, d’ ye see ? Well, I gets all I 
can out of him, and no harm can happen me, 
for I bn but a cove a-carryin’ of messages 
betwixt you, and the more I gets for you the 
better for me. 1 settled many a business 
amigable the last five years that would never 
have bin settled without me. 1 bn well 
knowing to sonie of the swellest lawyers in 
town, and whenever they has a dilikite case, 
like a gentleman threatened with informa- 
tions or the like, they sends for me, and I 
arranges it amigable, to the satisfacshing of 
both parties. It ’s the only way to settle 
sich affairs with good profit and no risk. I 
have spoke to Mr, Longcluse. lie was all 
for having your four bones in the block- 
house, and yourself on the twister; and he ’s 
not a cove to be bilked out of his tin. But 
he would not like the bother of your cross- 
charge, either, and I think I could make all 
square between ye. What do you say? 

“ IIow can I tell that you ever set eyes on 
Mr. Longcluse?’’ said Davies, more satisfied, 
as the conference proceeded, that he had mis- 
directed his first guess at the identity of the 
horseman. “ IIow can I tell you ’re not 
just a-gettin’ all you can out o’ me, to make 
what you can of it on your own account in 
that market ? ” 

“ That ’s true ; you can’t tell, mate.” 


“ And what do I know about you ? What ’s 
your name?” pursued Paul Davies. 

“ I forgot my name. I left it at home in 
the cupboard ; and you know nothing about 
me, that ’s true, excepting what I told you, 
and you ’ll hear no more.” 

“I’m too old a bird for that; you ’re a 
born genius, only spoilt in the baking. I ’m 
thinking, mate, 1 may as well paddle my 
own canoe, and sell my own secret on my 
own account. What can you do for me that 
I can’t do as well for myself? ” 

“ You don’t think that, Paul. You dare 
not show to Mr. Longcluse, and you know 
he’s in a wax ; and who can you send to 
him ? You ’ll make nothing o’ that brag. 
Where ’s the good of talking like a blast to 
a chap like me? Don’t you suppose I take 
all that at its vally? I tell you what, if it 
ain’t settled now, you ’ll see me no more, for 
I ’ll not undertake it.” He pulled up his 
horse’s head, preparatory to starting. 

“Well, what’s up now — what’s the 
hurry ?” demanded Mr. Davies. 

“ Why, if this here meetin’ won’t lead to 
business, the sooner we two parts and gets 
home again, the less time wasted,” answered 
the cavalier, with his hand on the crupper 
of. the saddle, as he turned to speak. 

Eacli seemed to wait for the other to add 
something. 

“If you let me go this time, Mr. What’s- 
your-name, you’ll not catch me a-walking out 
here again,” said Mr. Davies, sourly. “If 
there ’s business to be done, now ’s the time.” 

“Well, I can’t make it no plainer — ’tis 



4G 


CHECKMATE. 


as clear as mud in a wine-glass,’^ said Mr. 
AVheeler, gayly, and again he shook the bri- 
dle and hitched himself in the saddle, and 
the horse stirred uneasily as he added, 
“Have you any more to say ?” 

“Well, supposin’ I say aye, how soon 
will it be settled? ” said Paul Davies, think- 
ing better of it. 

“These things does n’t take long with a 
rich cove like Mr. Longcluse. It’s where 
they has to scrape it up, by beggin ’ here 
and borrowin ’ there, and sellin ’ this and 
spoutin’ that, there’s await always. But 
a chap with no end o’ tin — that has only to 
wish and have — that ’s your sort. lie sAvears 
a bit, and threatens, and stamps, and loses 
his temper sum mat, ye see ; and if I was 
the principal, like you are in this ’ere case, 
and the police convenient, or a poker in his 
fist, he might make a row. But seein’ I’m 
only a messenger like, it don’t come to 
nothin ’, He claps his hand in his pocket, 
and outs with the rino, and there ’s all ; and 
jest a bit of paper to sign. But I won’t 
stay here no longer. I’m getting a bit cold 
myself; so it’s on or off’ noio. Go yourself 
to Longcluse, if you like, and see if you 
don’t catch it. The least you get will be 
seven-penn’orth, for extortin’ money by 
threatenin’ a prosecution, if he don’t hang 
you for the murder of the Saloon cove. IIow 
would you like that ? ” 

“ It ain’t the physic that suits my com- 

laint, guvnor. But I have him there. I 

ave the statement wrote, in sure hands, 
and other hevidence, as he may suppose, 
and dated, and signed by respectable peo- 
ple ; and I knoAv his dodge. He thinks he 
came out first Avith his ‘charge against me, 
but he’s out there; and if he ivill haA’e it, 
and I split, he’d best look slippy.” 

“And hoAV much do you want? Mind, 
I ’ll funk him all I can, though he’s a wide- 
aAvake chap ; for it ’s my game to get every 
pig I can out of him.” 

“ I ’ll take two thousand pounds, and go 
to Canada or to New York, my passage and 
expenses being paid, and sign anything in 
reason he Avants ; and that’s the shortest 
chalk I ’ll offer.” 

“ Don’t you wish you may get it? I do, I 
knOAV, but I’m thinking you might jest as 
well look for the naytional debt.” 

“What’s your name? ” again asked Da- 
vies, a little abruptly. 

“ My name fell out o’ window, and w’as 
broke, last Tuesday mornin’. But call me 
Tom Wheeler, if you can’t t alk without call- 
ing me something.” 

“Well, Tom, that’s the figure,” said 
Davies. 

“ If you Avant to deal, speak noAv,” said 
Wheeler. “If I’m to stand between you, I 
must haA^e a power to close on the best offer 
I’m like to get. I Avon’t do nothing in the 
matter elseways.” 

With this fresh exhortation, tlie confer- 
ence on details proceeded ; and Avhen at last 


it closed, with something like a definite un- 
derstanding, Tom AVheeler said : 

“ Mind, Paul Davies, I comes from no 
one, and I goes to no one ; and I never seed 
you in all my days.” 

“ And Avhere are you going ?” 

“ A bit nearer the moon,” said the myste- 
rious Mr. Wheeler, lifting his hand and 
pointing toward the red disk, with one of his 
bearded grins. And Avheeling his horse 
suddenly, away he rode at a canter, right 
toward the red moon, against which, for a 
few moments, the figure of the retreating 
horse and man showed black and sharp, as 
if cut out of card-board. '' 

Paul Davies looked after him with his left 
eye screwed close,” as was his custom, in 
shrewd rumination. 

Before the horseman had got very far, the 
moon passed under the edge of a thick cloud, 
and the waste was once more enveloped in 
total darkness. 

In this absolute obscurity the retreating 
figure was instantaneously SAvallowed, so 
that the shrewd ex-detective, who had 
learned by rote eA'ery article of his dress, 
and every button on it, and could have 
sworn to every mark on his horse at York 
Fair, had no chance of discovering, in the 
ultimate line of his retreat, any clue to his 
destination. 

He had simply emerged from darkness, 
and darkness had swalloAved him again. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MR. LONGCLUSE AT MORTLAKE HALL. 

We must now see hoAv Sir Reginald’s lit- 
tle dinner-party, not a score of miles aAvay, 
went off only two days later. He Avas for- 
tunate, considering that he had bidden his 
guests upon very short notice. . Not one dis- 
appointed. 

I dare say that Lady May — whose toilet, 
considering how quiet eA^erything Avas, had 
been made elaborately — missed a face that 
would have brightened the whole rooms for 
her. But the interview between Richard 
Arden and his father had not, as we knoAV, 
ended in reconciliation, and Lady May’s 
hopes were disappointed, and her toilet la- 
bor in vain. 

When Lady May entered the room with 
Alice, she saw standing on the hearth-rug, 
at the far end of the handsome room, a tall 
and very good-looking man of sixty or up- 
ward, chatting Avith Sir Reginald, one of ^ 
whose feet was in a slipper, and Avho was 
sitting in an easy chair. A little bit of fire 
burned in the grate, for the day had been 
{ chill and shoAA’-ery. 

j This tall man, with white silken hair, and 
j a countenance kind, frank, and thoughtful, 

! with a little sadness in it, Avas, she had no 
' doubt, David Arden, whom she had last seen 


CHECKMATE. 


47 


with silken brown locks, and the tints and 
cheer of early manhood in it. 

Sir Reginald stood up, with an uncomfort- 
able effort, and, smiling, pointed to his slip- 
per in excuse for his limping gait, as he set 
forth across the carpet to meet her, with a 
good-humored shrug. 

“Wasn't it good of her to come?" said 
Alice. 

“ She's better than good," said Reginald, 
with his thin, yellow smile, extending his 
hand, and leading her to a chair ; “ it is visit- 
ing the sick and the haR, and doing real 
good, for it is a pleasure to see her — a pleas- 
ure bestowed on a miserable poor soul who 
has very few pleasures left ; " and with his 
other thin hand he patted gently the ringed 
fingers of her fat hand, for she had plucked 
off her glove to greet her kinsman. 

“ Here is my brother David," continued 
the baronet. “ He says you will hardly 
know him." * 

“ She’ll hardly believe it. She was very 
young when she last saw me, and the last 
ten years have made some changes," said 
uncle David, laughing gently. 

At the baronet’s allusion to that most diffi- 
cult subject, the lapse of time. Lady May 
winced and simpered uneasily, but she ex- 
panded gratefully as David Arden disposed 
of it so adroitly. 

“We’ll not speak of years of change. I 
knew you instantly," said Lady May, hap- 
pily. “ And you have been to Vichy, Regi- 
nald. What stay do you make here ? " 

“ None, almost ; my crippled foot keeps 
me always on a journey. It seems a para- 
dox, but so it is. I ’m ordered to visit Bux- 
ton for a week or so, and then I go, for 
change of air, to Yorkshire."^ 

As Alice entered, she saw 'the oval face, 
the original of the brilliant portrait which 
had haunted her on her night journey to 
Twyford, and she heard a very silvery voice 
chatting gayly. 

Mr. Longcluse was leaning on the end of 
the sofa on w^hich Grace Maubraysat; and 
Vivian Darnley, it seemed in high spirits, 
was standing and laughing nearly before 
her. 

Alice ^Lui bray walked quickly over, smil- 
ing, to welcome her beautiful guest. With 
a misgiving and a strange pain at her heart, 
she saw how much more beautiful this young 
lady had grown. Smiling radiantly, with 
her hand extended, she greeted and kissed 
her fair kinswoman, and, after a few words, 
sat down for a little beside her, and asked 
Mr. Longcluse how he did, and finally spoke 
to Vivian Darnley, and then returned to her 
conventional dialogue of welcome and polite- 
ness with her cousin — how cousin, she could 
not easily have explained. 

The young ladies seemed so completely 
taken up with one another that, after a little 
wait, the gentlemen fell into a desultory talk* 
and drew gradually a little nearer to the 
window. They were talking now of dogs 


and horses, and Mr. Longcluse w'as stealing 
rapidly into the good graces of the young 
man. 

“ When we come up after dinner, you 
must tell me who these people are," said 
Grace Maubray, who did not care very much 
what she said. “ That young man is a Mr. 
Vivian, ain’t he?" 

“ No — Darnley," whispered Alice ; “ Viv- 
ian is his Christian name." 

“ Very romantic names ; and, if he really 
means half he says, he is a very romantic 
person." She laughed. 

“ What has he been saying? ’’ Alice won- 
dered. But, after all, it was possible to be 
romantic on almpst any subject. 

“ And the other? ’’ 

“ He ’s a Mr. Longcluse," answered Alice. 

“ He ’s rather clever," said the young 
lady, with a grave decision that amused 
Alice. 

“ Do you think so? Well, so do I ; that 
is, I know his conversation often interests 
me. He has been almost everywhere, and 
he tells things rather pleasantly." 

Before they could go any further, Vivian 
Darnley, turning from the window toward 
the two young ladi.es, said — 

“T ’ve just been saying that we must try 
to persuade Lady May to get up a party to 
the Derby." 

“ I can place a drag at her disposal," 
said Mr. Longcluse. 

“ And a splendid team — I saw them," 
threw in Darnley. 

“ There ’s nothing I should like so much," 
said Alice. “ 1 ’ve never been to the Derby. 
What do you say, Grace ? Can you manage 
uncle David? ’’ 

“ I ’ll try," said the young lady, gayly. 

“ We must all set upon Lady May," said 
Alice. “She is so good-natured, she can’t 
resist us." 

“ Suppose we begin now ? ’’ suggested 
Darnley. 

“ Had n’t we better wait till we have her 
quite to ourselves ? Who knows what your 
papa and your uncle might say?" said 
Grace Maubray, turning to Alice. “ I vote 
for saying nothing to them until Lady May 
has settled, and then they must only sub- 
mit." 

“ I agree with you quite," said Alice, 
laughing. 

“ Sage advice ! ’’ said Mr. Longcluse, with 
a smile ; “ and there ’s time enough to choose 
a favorable moment. It comes off exactly 
ten days from this." 

“ Oh, anything might be done in ten 
days," said Grace. “ 1 ’m sorry it is so far 
away." 

“ Yes, a good deal might be done in ten 
days ; and a great deal might happen in ten 
days," said Longcluse, listlessly looking 
down at the floor — “a great deal might 
happen." 

He thought he saw Miss Arden’s eye 
upon him, curiously and quickly, as he 


48 


CHECKMATE. 


uttered this common-place speech, rendered 
odd, only, by the singularity of his manner. 

“In this busy world. Miss Arden, there 
is no such thing as quiet, and no one acts 
without imposing on other people the neces- 
sity for action,^’ said Mr. Longcluse ; “ and 
I believe often the greatest changes in life 
are the least anticipated by those who seem 
to bring them about spontaneously.^^ 

At this moment, dinner being announced, 
the little party transferred itself to the 
dining-room, and Miss Arden found herself 
between Mr. Longcluse and uncle David. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

THE PARTY IN THE DINING-ROOM. 

And now, all being seated, began the 
talk and business of dinner. 

“ I believe,'’ said Mr. Longcluse, with a 
laugh, “I am growing metaphysical." 

“Well, shall I confess, Mr. Longcluse, 
you do sometynes say things that are, I 
fear, a little too wise for my poor compre- 
hension?" 

“ I don't express them ; it is my fault," 
he answered, in a very low tone. “ You 
have mind, Miss Arden, for anything. 
There is no one it is so delightful to con- 
verse with, owing in part to that very faculty 
— I mean, quick apprehension. But I know 
my own defects. I knoAV how imperfectly 
I often express myself. By-the-by, you 
seemed to wish to have that curious little 
wild Bohemian air I sang the other night, 
‘The Wanderer's Bride' — the song about 
the white lily, you know. I ventured to 
get a friend, who really is a very good musi- 
cian, to make a setting of it, which I so 
much hope you will like. I brought it with 
me. You will think me very presumptuous, 
but I hoped so much you might be tempted 
to try it." 

When Mr. Longcluse spoke to Alice, it 
was always in a tone so very deferential 
that it was next to impossible that a very 
young girl should not bo llattered by it, 
considering, e3peciall3% that the man was 
reputed clever, had seen the world, and had 
certainly had a certain success, and that by 
no means of a kind often obtained, or ever 
quite despised. There was also a direct- 
ness in his eulogy which was unusual, and 
8pok«en with a different manner would have 
been embarrassing, if not offensive. But in 
i\Ir. Longcluse's manner, when he spoke 
such phrases, there was such areal humility, 
and even sadness, that the boldness of the 
sentiment was lost in the sincerity and de- 
jection of the speaker, which seemed to 
place him on a sudden at the immeasur- 
able distance of a melancholy worship. 

“ I am so much obliged ! " said Alice. “ I 
did wish so much to have it, when you sang 
it. It may not do for m3" voice at all, but I 


longed to try it. When a song is sung so as 
to move one, it is sure to be looked out and 
learned, without any thought wasted on 
voice, or skill, or natural fitness. It is, I 
Suppose, like the vanity that makes one 
person dress after another who is quite un- 
like. Still, I do wish to sing that song, and 
I am so much obliged." 

From the other side, her uncle said very 
softly — 

“ What do you think of my ward, Grace 
Maubray?" 

“ Oughtn 't I to ask, rather, what you 
think of her?" she laughed, archly. 

“ Oh, I see," he answered, with a pleasant 
and honest smile ; “ you have the gift of 
seeing as far as other clever people into a 
millstone. But, no — though perhaps I 
ought to thank 3"ou for giving me credit for so 
much romance and good taste — I don’t 
think I shall ever introduce you to an aunt. 
You must guess again,* if you will have a 
matrimonial explanation ; though I don't 
say there is any such design. And perhaps, 
if there Avere, the best Avay to promote it 
would be to leave the intended hero and 
heroine very much to themselves. They are 
both very good-looking." 

“ Who? " asked Alice, although she knew 
very well whom he meant. 

“ I mean that pretty creature OA^er there, 
Grace Maubray, and Vivian Darnley," said 
he, very low. 

She smiled, looking A"ery much pleased 
and very arch. 

With hoAV Spartan a completeness woman 
can hide the shootings and quiverings of 
mental pain, and of bodily pain, too, Avhen 
the motive is sufficient ! Under this latter 
they are often clamorous, to be sure, but the 
demonstration expresses not want of pa- 
tience, but the feminine yearning for com- 
passion. 

“I fancy nothing would please the young 
rogue Vivian better. I Avish I Avere half so 
sure of her. You girls are so unaccountable, 
so fanciful, and — don't be angry — so un- 
certain." 

“Well, I suppose, as you say, we must 
only haA"e patience, and leave the matter in 
the hands of Time, who settles most things 
pretty well." 

She raised her eyes, and fancied she saw 
Grace Maubray at the same moment Avith- 
draAV hers from her face. Lady May Avas 
talking at this moment from the end of the 
table Avith Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Your neighbor who is talking to Lady 
May is a Mr. Longcluse." 

“Yes," 

“ lie is a city notability : but, oddly, I 
never happened to see him till this CA’-ening. ’ 
Do you think there is something odd in his 
appearance ? " 

“ Yes, a little, perhaps. Don’t you ? " 

* “ So odd that he makes my blood run 
cold," said uncle David, Avith a shrug and a 
little laugh. “ Seriously, I mean unpleas- 


CHECKMATE. 


49 


antly odd. What is Lady May talking about ? 
Yes — I thought so — that horrid murder at 
the Saloon Tavern. For so good-natured a 
person, she has the most bloodthirsty tastes 
I know of ; she ^s always deep in some hor- 
ror.’^ 

“My brother Dick told me that Mr. Long- 
cluse made a speech tliere.'^ 

“Yes, so I heard; and I think he said 
what is true enough. London is growing 
more and more insecure ; and that certainly 
was a most audacious murder. People make 
money a little faster, that is true ; but what 
is the good of money, if their lives are not 
their own ? It is quite true that there are 
streets in London, which I remember as safe 
as this room, through which no one suspect- 
ed of having five pounds in his pocket could 
now walk without a likelihood of being gar- 
roted.’’ 

“How dreadful!” said Alice, and uncle 
David laughed a little at her horror. 

“ It is too true, my dear. But, to pass to 
pleasanter sulqects, when do you mean to 
choose among the youUg fellows, and present 
me to a new nephew? ” said uncle David. 

“ Do you fancy I would tell any one, if I 
knew ? ” she answered, laughing. “ How 
is it that you men, who are always accusing 
us weak women of thinking of nothing else, 
can never get the subject of matrimony out 
of your heads? Now, uncle, as you and I 
may talk confidentially, and at our ease. 
I’ll tell you two things. I like my present 
spinster life very well — I should like it 
better, I think, if it were in the country: 
but, town or country,' I don’t think I should 
ever like a married life. I don’t think I ’m 
fit for command.” 

“Command? I thought the prayer-book 
said something about obeying, on the c-on- 
trary,” said uncle David. 

“You know what I mean. I ’m not fit to 
rule a household; and I am afraid I am a 
little idle, and I should not like to have it to 
do — and so I could never do it well.” 

“ Nevertheless, when the right man comes, 
he need but beckon with his finger, and 
away you go. Miss Alice, and undertake it 
all.” 

“ So we are whistled away, like poodles 
for a walk, and that kind of thing ! Well, 
I suppose, uncle, you are right, though I 
can’t see that I ’m quite so docile a creature. 
But if my poor sex is so willing to be won, I 
don’t know how you are to excuse your soli- 
tary state, considering how very little trouble 
it would have taken to make some poor crea- 
ture happy.” 

“A very fair retort!” laughed uncle 
David. And he added, in a changed tone, 
for a sudden recollection of his own early 
fortunes crossed him, “ But even when the 
right man does come, it does not always 
follow. Miss Arden, that he dares make the 
sign ; fate often interposes years, and in 
them death may come, and so the whole 
card-castle falls.” 

4 


“ I ’ve had a long talk,” he resumed, 
“with Richard ; he lias made me promises, 
and I hope he will be a better boy for the 
future. He has been getting himself into 
money troubles, and acquiring — I ’m afraid 
I should say cultivating — a taste for play. 

I know you have heard something of this 
before ; I told you myself. But he Jas made 
me promises, and I hope, for your sake, 
he ’ll keep them ; because, you know, I and 
your father can’t last forever, and he ought 
to take care of you ; and how can he do 
that, if he’s not fit to take care of himself? , 
But I believe there is no use in thinking too 
much about what is to come. One has 
enough to do in the present. I think poor 
Lady May has been disappointed,” he said, 
with a cautious smile, his eye having glanced 
for a moment on her; “she looks a little 
forlorn, I think.” 

“Does she? And why?” 

“Well, they say she would not object to 
be a little more nearly related t5 you than 
she is.” 

“ You can’t mean papa — or yourself?” 

“Oh, dear, no,” he answered, laughing. 

“ I mean that she misses Dick a good deal.” 

“ Oh, dear uncle, you can’t be serious ! ” 

“ It might be a very serious affair for 
her; but I don’t know that he could do a 
wiser. The old quarrel is still raging, he 
tells me, and that he can’t appear in this 
house.” 

“ It is a great pity,” said she. 

“ Pity ! Not at all. They never could 
agree ; and it is much better for Dick they 
should not, on the terms Reginald proposes, 
at least. I see Lady May trying to induce 
you to make her the sign at which ladies 
rise, and leave us, poor fellows, to shift for 
ourselves.” 

“Ungallant old man! I really believe 
she is.” 

And in a moment more the ladies were 
floating from the room, Vivian Darnley 
standinir at the door. Somehow he could 
not catch Alice’s eye as they passed ; she 
was smiling an answer to some gabble of 
Lady May’s. Grace gave him a very kind 
look with her fine eyes as she went by ; and 
so the door closed, and the young man, who 
had followed them up the massive stairs 
with his gaze, closed the door and sat down 
again, before his claret glass, and his little 
broken cluster of grapes, and half-dozen 
distracted bits of candied fruit, and sighed 
deeply. . 

“ That murder in the eity that you were 
speaking of just now to Lady May is a seri- 
ous business for men who walk the streets, 
as I do sometimes, with money in my 
pockets,” said David Arden, addressing Mr. 
Longcluse. 

“ So it struck me — one feels that instinct- 
ively. When I saw that poor little good- 
natured fellow dead, and thought how easily 
I might have walked in there myself, with 
the assassin behind me, it seemed to me 


50 


CHECKMATE 


simply the turn of a die that the lot had not 
fallen upon me/’ said Longcluse. 

“ He was robbed, too, wasn’t he ? ” croaked 
Sir Reginald, who was growing tired ; and 
with his fatigue came evidences of his tem- 
per. 

“ Oh, yes,” said David ; “ nothing left in 

. his pocl^ts.” 

^ “ Ana Laroque, a watchmaker, a relation 

of his, said he had cheques about him, 
and foreign money,” said Longcluse ; “but, 
of course, the cheques were not presented, 
and foreign money is not easily traced in a 
big town like London. I made him a present 
of ten pounds to stake on the game ; I could 
not learn that he did stake it, and I suppose 
the poor fellow intended applying it in some 
more prudent way. But my present was in 
gold, and that, of course, the robber applied 
without apprehension.” 

“ Now, you fellows who have a stake in 
the city, it is a scandal your permitting 
such a stafe of things to continue,” said Sir 
Reginald; “because, though your philan- 
thropy may not be very diftused, each of 
you cares most tenderly for one individual 
at least in the human race — I mean self — 
and whatever you may think of personal 
morality, and even life — for you don’t seem 
to me to think a great deal of grinding 
operatives in the cranks of your mills, or 
bloAving them up by bursting steam-boilers, 
to say nothing of all the people you poison 
in adulterated food, or with strychnine in 
beer, or with arsenic in candles, or pretty 
green papers for bed-rooms, or smash or 
burn alive on railways — yet you should, on 
selfish grounds, set your fiices against a sys- 
tem of assassination for pocket-books and 
purses, the sort of things precisely you have 
always about you. Don’t you see? And 
it’s inconsistent, beside, because, as I said, 
although you care little for life — other 
people’s, I mean — in the abstract, yet you 
care a great deal for property. I think it’s 
your idol, by JoAm! and worshipping money 
— positively worshipping it, as' you do, it 
seems a scandalous inconsistency that you 
should — of course, I don’t mean you two 
individually,” he said, perhaps recollecting 
that he might be going a little too fast; 
“ you never, of course, fancied that. I mean, 
of course, the class of men we have all heard 
of, or seen — but I do say, Avith sort of ado- 
ration for money and property, I can’t under- 
stand their allowing their pockets to be 
profaned and their purses made away with.” 

Sir Reginald, having thus delivered him- 
self with considerable asperity, poured some 
claret into his glass, and pushed the jug on 
to his brother, and then, closing his eyes, 
composed himself either to listen or to sleep. 

“ City or country, east end or west end. I 
fancy we are all equally anxious to keep 
other people’s hands out of our pockets,” 
said David Arden ; “ and I quite agree with 
Mr. Longcluse in all he is reported to have 
said with respect to our police system.” 


“But is it so certain that the man was 
robbed?” said Vivian Darnley. 

“ Everything he had about him was taken,” 
said Mr. Longcluse. 

“ But they pretend to rob men sometimes, 
when they murder them, only to conceal the 
real motive,” persisted Vivian Darnley. 

“Yes, that’s quite true; but then there 
must be some motive,” said Mr. Longcluse, 
with something a little supercilious in his 
smile ; “ and it is n’t easy to conceive a mo- 
tive for murdering a poor little good-natured 
letter of lodgings, a person past the time of 
life when jealousy could have anything to 
do with it, and a most inoffensive and civil 
creature. I confess, if I were obliged to 
seek a motive other than the obvious one, for 
the crime, I should be utterly puzzled.” 

“When I was travelling in Prussia,” said 
Vivian Darnley, “ I saw two people in 
different prisons — one a woman, the other 
a middle-aged man, both for murder. They 
had been found guilty, and they had been 
keeping them there, only to get a confession 
from them before execution. They won’t 
put them to death, you know, unless they 
have first admitted their guilt ; and one had 
actually confessed. Well, each had borne 
an unexceptionable character up to the time 
when suspicion was accidentally aroused, 
and then it turned out that they had been 
poisoning, and otherAvise making aAvay AAnth 
people, at the rate of tA^o or three a year, 
for half their lives. Now, don’t you see, 
these masked assassins, having, as it ap- 
peared, absolutely no intelligible motive, 
either of passion or of interest, to commit 
these murders, could have had no induce- 
ment, as the Avoman had actually confessed, 
except a sort of lust of murder. I suppose 
it is a sort of madness, but these people Avere 
not otherAvise mad ; and it is quite possible 
that the same sort of thing may be going on 
in other places. People say that the police 
Avould have got a clue to the mystery by 
means of the foreign coin and the bank- 
notes, if they had not been destroyed.” 

“ But there are traces of organization,” 
said Mr. Longcluse. “ In a croAvded place 
like that, such things could hardly be man- 
aged without it, and insanity such as you 
describe is very rare ; and you ’ll hardly get 
people to believe in a swell-mob of madmen 
committing murder in concert simply for the 
pleasure of homicide. They will all lean 
to a belief in the coarse but intelligible mo- 
tiA’^e of the highwayman.” 

“ I saw in the newspapers,” said David 
Arden, “sotne evidence of yours, Mr. Long- 
cluse; which seemed rather to indicate a par- 
ticular man as the murderer.” 

“ I have my eye upon him,” said Long- 
cluse. “ There are suspicious circumstances. 
The case in a little time may begin to clear; 
at present, the police are only groping,” he 
ansAvered. 

“ That ’s satisfactory ; and those fellows 
are paid so handsomely for groping,” said 


CHECKMATE. 


51 



“ THERE WAS A PALPABLE TREMBLE IN THE THIN HAND SHE EXTENDED TOWARDS HIM.^^ 


“ Pray, Miss Arden, don’t let us interrupt 
you,” said Mr. Longcluse. “I thought I 
heard singing as we came up the stairs.” 
He had come to the piano, and was now at 
her side. 

She did not sing or play, but Vivian Darn- 
ley thought that her conversation with Long- 
cluse, as, witli one knee on his chair, he 
leaned over the back of it and talked, seemed 
more interesting ti»an usual. 


temperament. But commercial habits and 
example had failed to control that natural 
ardor, and, when once inflamed, it governed 
his action implicitly. 

An idea, very vague, very little the pro- 
duct of reason, had now taken possession of 
his brain, and he relied upon it as an intui- 
tion. He had been thinking over it. It first 
warmed, then simmered, then, as it were, 
boiled. The process had been one of an 


Sir Keginald, opening his eyes suddenly. 
‘‘ I believe that we are the w^orst governed 
and the worst managed people* on earth, and 
that our merchants and trades-people are 
rich simply by flukes — simply by a con- 
currence of lucky circumstances, with which 
they have no more to do than Prester John 
or the man in the moon. Take a little 
claret, Mr. Longcluse, and send it on.” 

“No more, thanks.” 

And all the guests being of the same 
mind, they marched up the broad stairs to 
the ladies. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


IN MRS. TANSEY’s ROOM. 


There were sounds of music and laugh- 
ter faintly andible through the drawing- 
room door. The music ceased as the door 
opened, and the gentlemen entered an at- 
mosphere of brilliant light, and fragrant 
with the pleasant aroma of tea. 


“ I say, Reginald,” said David Arden, soft- 
ly, to his brother, “ I must run down and 
pay Martha Tansey my usual visit. She ’s 
in her room, I suppose. I ’ll steal away 
and return quietly.” 

And so he was gone. He closed the door 
softly behind him, and slowly descended the 
wide staircase, with many vague conjectures 
and images revolving in his mind. 

He paused at the great window on the 
landing, and looked out upon the solemn 
and familiar landscape. A brilliant moon 
was high in the sky, and the stars glimmered 
brightly. His hand was on the window as 
he looked out thinking. 

Uncle David was a man impulsive by na- 
ture, impetuous in action, sanguine in spirit 
— a temperament, in short, which, directed 
by an able intellect, would have made a good 
general. When an idea had got into his 
head, he could not rest until he had worked 
it out. On the Avhole, throughout his life 
these fits of sudden and feA^erish concentra- 
tion had been efiective, and aided his for- 
tunes. It is, perhaps, an unbusiness-like 


62 


CHECKMATE. 


hour and more, as he sat at his brother’s 
table and took his share in the conversation. 
When the steam got up and the pressure 
rose to the point of action, forth went uncle 
David to have his talk with his early friend 
Tansey. He stopped, as I have said, at the 
great window on the staircase, and looked 
out and up. The moon was splendid ; the 
stars were glimmering brightly. They look- 
ed down like a thousand eyes set upon him, 
to watch the prowess and perseverance of 
the man on whom fate had imposed a mis- 
sion. 

Some idea like this seized him, for, like 
many men of sipiilar temperaments, he had 
an odd and unconfessed vein of poetry in 
his nature. He had looked out and up in a 
listless abstraction, and the dark heaven 
above him, brilliant with its eternal lights, 
had for a moment withdrawn and elevated 
his thoughts as if he had entered the gloom 
of a cathedral. 

“What specks and shadows we are, and 
how eternal is duty. And if we are in 
another place, to last like those unfailing 
lights — to become happy or wretched and, 
in either state, indestructible forever — what 
signify the labor and troubles of life, com- 
pared with that by which our everlasting fate 
IS fixed ? God help us ! Am I consulting 
revenge or conscience in pursuing this bar- 
ren inquiry ? Do I mistake for the sublime 
impulse of conscience a vulgar thirst for 
blood? I think not. I never harbored 
malice ; I hate punishing people. But 
murder is a crime against God himself, re- 
specting which He imposes duties upon man, 
and seconds them by all the instincts of af- 
fection. Dare I neglect them, then, in the 
case of poor loving Harry, my brother?” 

The drawing-room door had been opened 
a little, the night being sultry, and through 
it now came the clear tones of a well-taught 
baritone. It was singing a slow and im- 
passioned air, and its tones, though sweet, 
chilled him with a strange pain. It seemed 
like instinct that told him it was the stranger’s 
voice. One moment’s thought would have 
proved it equally. There was no one else 
there to suspect but Vivian Darnley, and he 
was no musician. But to David Arden it 
seemed that if a hundred people were there 
he should have felt it all the same, and in- 
tuitively recognized it as Longcluse’s voice. 

“ AVhat is it in that voice that is so hate- 
ful? What is it in that passion that sounds 
insincere? What gives to those sweet tones 
a latent discord, that creeps so coldly through 
my nerves? ” 

So thought David Arden, as, with one 
hand still upon the wdndow-sash, he listened 
and turned toward the open door, with a 
frown akin to one of pain contracting his 
forehead. 

Spell-bound, he listened till the song w^as 
over, and sighed, and shook his ears with a 
sort of shudder when the music ceased. 

“ I don’t know w'hy I staid to listen — 


face — voice, what -is the agency about that 
fellow ? I dare say I ’m a fool ; but I can’t 
help it, and I must bring the idea to the test.” 

lie descended the stairs slowly, crossed 
the hall, and walked thoughtfully down the 
passage leading to the housekeeper's room. 
At this hour the old woman had it usually 
to herself. He knocked at the housekeeper’s 
door, and recognized the familiar voice that 
answered. 

“How do you do, Martha?” said he, 
striding cheerily into the room. 

“ Ah ! Master David ? ,iSo it is, sure ! ” 

“Ay, sure and sure, M^i^tha,” said he, 
taking the old woman’s hand, with his kind 
smile. And how are you, Martha ? Tell 
me how you are.” ^ 

“ I won’t say much. I ’m not so canty as 
you ’ll mind me. I ’m an old wife now. 
Master David, and not long for this world, 

I ’m thinkin’,” she answered, dolorously. 

“ You may outlive much younger people, 
Martha ; we are all in the hands of God,” 
said David, smiling. “ It seems to me but 
yesterday that I and poor Harry used to run 
in here to you from our play in the grounds, 
and you had always a bit of something good 
for us hungry fellows to eat, come when we • 
might.” 

“Ah, ha! Yes, ye were hungry fellows 
then — spirin’ up, fine tall lads. Reginald 
was never like ye ; he was seven years 
older than you. And hungry? Yes! The 
cold turkey and ham, ye mind — by Jen ! — 

I have seen ye eat hearty; and pancakes — 
ye liked them best of all. And it went a’ 
into a good skin. I will say — you and 
Master Harry (God be wi’ him!) — a fine, 
handsome pair o’ lads ye were. And you ’re 
a handsome fellow still. Master David, and 
might have married well, no doubt ; but 
man proposes and God disposes, an^ time 
and tide ’ll wait for no man, and what ’s one 
man’s meat’s another man’s poison. Who 
knows, and all may be for the best? And 
that Mr. Longcluse is dining here to-day?” 
she added, not very coherently, and with a 
sudden gloom. 

“ Yes, Martha, that Mr. Longcluse is din- 
ing here to-day ; and Master Dick tells me 
you did not fall in love with him at first 
sight, when they paid you a visit here. Is 
that' true ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I don’t know what. 
The sight of him — or the' sound of his 
voice, I don’t know .which — gave me a 
turn,” said the old ivoman. 

“ Well, Martha, I don’t likehisface, either. 
He gave me, also, what you call a turn. 
He ’s very pale, and I felt as if I had been 
frightened by him when I was a child ; and 
yet he must be some five-and-twenty years 
younger than I am, and I ’m almost certain 
I never saw him before. So I say it must 
be something that’s no’ canny, as you used 
to say. What do you think, Martha? ” 

“ Ye may be funnin’. Master David. Ye 
were always acanty lad. But it’s o’er true. 


CHECKMATE. 


53 


/ 


I can^t bring to mind what it is — I can’t 
tell — but something in that man’s face gev 
me a sten. I conceited T was just goin’ to 
swound ; arjid he looked sa straight at me, 
like a ghost.” 

“ Master Richard says you looked very 
hard at Mr. Longcluse ; you had both a great 
stare at each other,” said uncle David. “ He 
thought there was going to be a recognition.” 

“ Did I? Well, no; 1 don’t know him, I 
think. ’Tis all a jummlement, like. I 
couldn’t bring nout to mind. — ” 

“I know, Martha, you liked poor Harry 
well,” said David Arden, not with a smile, 
but with a very sad countenance. 

“That I did,” said Mrs. Tansey. > 

“And I think -you like me, Martha?” 

“Ye’re not far wrong there. Master Da- 
vid.” 

“And, for both our sakes — for mine and 
his, for the dead no less than the living — I 
am sure you won’t allow any thought of 
trouble, or nervousness, or fear of lawyers’ 
browbeating, or that sort of thing to deter 
you from saying, wherever and whenever 
justice may require it, everything you know 
or suspect respecting that dreadful occur- 
rence.” 

“The death o’ Master David, ye mean ! ” 
exclaimed Mrs. Tansey, sternly, drawing 
herself up on a sudden, with a pale frown, 
and looking full at him. “ Me to hide or 
hold back aught that could bring the truth 
to light ! My God ! Master David, do you 
know what ye ’re sayin ’ ? ” 

“ Perfectly,” said he, with a melancholy 
smile ; “ and I am glad it vexes you, Martha, 
because I need no answer on that point 
more than your honest voice and face.” 

“ Keep back aught, man ! ” she repeated, 
striking her hand on the table. “Why, 
lad, I’d lose that old hand under the chopper 
for one gliff o’ the truth into that damned 
story. Why, lawk ! where’s yer head, boy ? 
Wasn ’t I ’maist killed myself, for sake o’ 
him, that night?” 

“Ay, Martha, brave girl, I’m satisfied; 
and I ask your pardon for the question. But 
years bring alteration, you know ; and I ’m 
changed in mind myself in many ways I 
never could have believed. And every one 
doesn ’t see with me that it is our duty to 
explore a crime like that, to track' the villain, 
if we can, and bring him to justice. You do, 
Martha; but there are many in whose veins 
poor Harry’s blood is running who don’t 
feel like you. Master Richard said that the 
gentleman looked as if he did not know 
what to make of you ; and, ‘ by Jove ! ’ said 
he, didn’t either — Martha stared so.’” 

“I couldn’t help. ’Twas scarce civil; 
but truly I couldn’t, sir,” said Martha 
Tansey, who had by this time recovered her 
equaniraitv. “ He did remind me of sum- 
mat.” 

“ We will talk of that by-and-by, Martha ; 
we will try to recall it. What I want you 
first to tell me is exactly your recollection 


of the lamentable occurrence of that night. 
I have a full note of it at home ; but I have 
not looked at it for years, and I want my 
recollection confirmed to-night, that you and 
I may talk over some possibilities which I 
should like to examine with your help.” 

“ I can talk of it now,” said the old wo- 
man ; “ but for many a year after it hap- 
pened I dare not. I could not sleep for 
many a night after I told it to any one. But 
now I can bear it. So, Master David, you 
may ask what you please.” 

“ First let me hear your recollectiop of 
what happened,” said David Arden. 

“ Ay, Master David, that I will. Sit ye 
down, for my old bones ^won’t carry me 
standing no time now, and sit I must. Right 
well ye’re lookin,’ and right glad am I to 
see it. Master David ; and ye were always a 
handsome laddie. God bless ye, and God 
be wi’ the old times ! And poor Master 
Harry — poor laddie! — I liked him well. 
You two looked beautiful, walkin ’ up to 
t ’house together — two conny, handsome 
boys ye were.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

MRS. TANSEY’s story. 

“ The sun don’t touch these windows till 
nigh nightfall. In the short days o’ winter, 
the last sunbeam at the settin’ just glints 
along the wall, and touches a sprig or two 
o’ them scarlet geraniums on the winda- 
stone. ’Tis a cold room. Master David. In 
summer evenin’s, like this, ye have just a 
chilly flush o’ the sun settin’, and before it’s 
well on the windas the bats and beetles is 
abroad, and the moth is flittin’, and the 
gleamin’ fa’s,” said the old woman. “ The 
windas looks to the west, but also a bit to 
the north, ye’ll mind, and that’s the cause 
o’t. I don’t complain. I ha’ suffered it these 
thirty years and more, and ’taint worth 
while for the few years that’s left makin’ a 
blub and a blither about it. I’m an old 
Avife now. Master David, and there can’t be 
many more years for me left aboon the grass, 
sa I e’en let be and taks the world easy, ye 
see; and that’s the reason lay keep a bit 
o’ wood burnin’ on the hearth — it keeps the 
life in my old bones, and I hope it ain’t too 
warm for you,. Master David.” 

“ Not a bit, Martha. This side of the 
house is cool. I remember that our room, 
when.we were boys, looked out from it, high 
up, you recollect, and it never was hot.” 

“That’s it, ye were in the top o’ the 
house ; and poor Harry, wi’ his picturs o’ 
horses and dogs hangin’ up on the wa’s. 
Lawk! it seems but last week. How the 
years flits! I often thinks of him. See 
what a moon there is' to-night. ’Twas just 
such a moon that night, only frostier, ye see 
— the same clear sky and bright moon; 
’t would make ye wink to look at. Y’'e’re 


54 


CHECKMATE. 


not too hot that bit o’ wood lightin’ in 
the grate ? ” 

“ I like the fire, Martha, and I like the 
moon, and I like your company best of all.” 

The truth was he did like the flicker of the 
wood fire. The flame was cheery, and took 
off something of the dismal shadow that 
stole over everything whenever he applied 
his affectionate mind to the horrors of the 
dreadful night on which he was now rumi- 
nating. One of the window-shutters was 
open, and the chill brilliancy of the moon, 
and the deep blue sky were serenely visible 
over the black foreground of trees. The 
wavering of the redder light of the fire, as 
its reflection spread and faded upon the 
wainscot, was warm and pleasant, and had 
their talk been of less ghastly things would 
have brightened their thoughts with a sense 
of comfort. 

“ I have not very long to stay, Martha,” 
said David Arden, looking at his watch, “so 
tell me your recollection as accurately as you 
can. Let me hear that first ; and then I 
want to ask you for some particular infor- 
mation, which I am sure you can give me.” 

“ Why not? Who should I give it sooner 
to ? Will ye take a cup o’ coffee ? No. 
AVell, a glass o’ cura 9 oa? No. And Avhat 
will ye take?” 

“ You forget that I have taken everything, 
and come to you with all my wants already 
supplied. So now, dear Martha, let me hear 
it all.” 

“ I ’ll tell ye all about it. I was younger 
and stronger, mind, than I am now, by twen- 
ty years and more. ’T is a short time to look 
back on, but a good while passing, and leaves 
' many a gap and change, and many a scur 
and wrinkle.” 

There was a palpable tremble always in 
Mrs. Tansey’s voice, in the thin hand she 
extended toward him, and in the head from 
which her old eyes glittered glassily on him. 

“The road is very lonely by night — the 
loneliest road in all England. When it passes 
ten o’clock, you might listen till cock-crow 
for a footfall. Well, I, and Thomas Ridley, 
and Anne Ilaslett was all the people at Mort- 
lake just then, the family being in the north, 
except Master Harry. He went to a race 
across country, that was run that day ; and 
he told me, laughing, he would not ask me 
to throw an old shoe after him, for he stood 
sure to win two thousand pounds. And away 
he went, little thinking, him and me, how 
our next meetin’ would be. At that time 
old Tom Clinton — ye’ll mind Clinton? ” 

“ To be sure I do,” acquiesced David Ar- 
den. 

“ Well, Tom was in the gate-house then ; 
after he died, his daughter’s husband got it, 
ye know. And when he had outstayed his 
time by two hours — for he was going north- 
ward in the morning, and told me he’d be 
surely back before ten — I began to be 
frightened, and I put on my bonnet and 
cloak, and down I runs to the gate-house, and 


knocks up Tom Clinton. It was nigh twelve 
o’clock the.n. When Tom came to the door, 
having dressed in haste, I said, ‘ Tom, which 
way will Master Harry return ?. he ’s not 
been since.’ And says Tom, ‘ If he ’s cornin’ 
straight from the course, he ’ll come down 
from the country ; but if he’s dinin’ instead 
in London, he’ll come up the Islington 
way.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘go you, Tom, to the 
turn o’ the road, and look and listen for sight 
or sound, and bring me word.’ I don’t know 
what was frightenin’ me. He was often 
later, and I never minded ; but something 
that night was on my mind, like a warning, 
for I could n’t get the fears out o’ my heart. 
Well, who comes ridin’ back but Dick Wal- 
lock, the groom, that had drove away with 
him in the gig in the mornin’ ; and glad I 
was to see his face at the gate. It was bright 
moonlight, and says I, ‘ Dick, how is Master 
Harry? Is all well with him?’ So he tells 
me, ay, all was well, and he goin’ to drive 
the gig out himself from town. He was at 
a place — you’ll mind the name of it — 
where it turned out they played cards and 
dice, and won and lost like fools, or worse, 
as some o’ them no doubt was. ‘ Well,’ says 
I, ‘ go you up, as he told you, with the horse, 
and I ’ll stay here till he comes back, if it 
wasn’t till daybreak.’ For all the time, ye 
see, my heart misgave me that there was 
summat bad to happen ; and when Tom 
Clinton came back, says I, ‘ Tom, you go in, 
and get to your room, and lot me sit down 
in your kitchen, and I ’ll let him in when he 
comes, for I can’t go up to the house, nor 
close an eye, till he comes.’ Well, it was a ■> 
full hour after, and I was sittin’ in the kitch- 
en window that looks out on the road, starin’ 
wide awake, and lookin’, now one way and 
now another, up and down, when I hears 
the clink of a footfall on the stones, and a 
tall, ill-favored man walks slowly by, ’and 
turns his face toward the window as he 
passed.” 

“You saw him distinctly, then?” said 
David. 

“ As plain as ever I saw you. An ill-fa- 
vored fellow in a light drab great-coat, he 
looked white wi’ fear, and wild big eyes, 
and a high hooked nose — a tall chap wi’ 
his hands in his pockets, and a low-crowned 
hat on. He went on slow, till a whistle 
sounded, and then he ran down the road a 
bit toward the signal.” 

“ That was toward the Islington side ? ” • 

“ Ay, sir, and I grew more uneasy. I was 
scared wi’ the sight o’ such a man at that 
time o’ night, in that lonesome place, and 
the whistlin’ and runnin’.” 

“Did you see the same man again that 
night?” asked David. 

“Yes, ’twas the same I saw afterward. 
Lord ha’ mercy on us ! I saw him again, at 
his murderin’ work. Oh, Master David 1 it 
makes my brain wild, and my flesh creep to 
think o’ that sight.” 

“I did wrong to interrupt you; tell it 


CHECKMATE. 


55 


your OTm way, Martha, and I can afterward 
ask you the questions that lie near my 
heart, said Mr. Arden. 

“ ’T is easy told, sir ; the candle was burnt 
down almost in the socket, and I went to 
look out another — but before I could find 
one it went out. was but a stump I found, 
and lighted after I saw that fellow in the 
light drab surtout go by. I wished to let 
them know, if they had any ill design, there 
was folks awake in the lodge. But he was 
gone by before I found the matches ; and 
now that he was cornin’ again, the candle 
went out — thin*gs goes so cross. It was to 
be, ye see. Well, while, I was rummagin’ 
about, looking for a candle, I heard the 
sound of a horse trotting hard, and wheels 
rollin’ along ; so says I, ‘ Thank God ! ’ for 
then I was sure it must be Harry, poor lad. 
So I claps on my bonnet, and out wi’ me, wi’ t’ 
key. I thought I heard voices, as the hoofs 
and wheels came clinkin’ up to the gate ; 
but I could not be quite sure. I was huffed 
wi’ Master Harry, for the long wait he gev, 
me, and the fright, and I took my time 
cornin’ round the corner o’ the gate-house. 
And thinks I to myself, he ’ll be offerin’ me 
a seat in the gig up to the house, but I won’t 
take it. God forgi’e me for them angry 
thoughts to the poor laddie that I was never 
to have a word wi’ more ! 

“ When I came to the gate there was 
never a call, and nothing but voices talking 
like, under their breath a’most, and a queer 
scufflin’ sound, that I could not make head 
nor tail on. So I unlocked the wicket, and 
out wi’ me, and. Lord ha’ mercy on us, 
what a sight for me ! The gig was there 
with its shafts on the ground, and its back 
cocked up, and the iron-gray flat on his side, 
lashin’ and scramblin’, poor brute, and two 
villians in the gig, both pullin’ at poor Mas- 
ter Harry, one robbin’ and t’ other murderin’ 
him. I took one o’ them — a short, thick 
fellow — by the skirt o’ his coat, to drag him 
out, and I screamed for Tom Clinton to come 
out. The short fellow turned, and struck 
at me wi’ somethin’ ; but, lucky for me, 
’appen, the lashin’ horse that minute took 
me on the foot, and brought me down. But 
up I scrambles wi’ a stone in my hand, and 
I shied it, the best I could, at the head o’ 
the villain that was killin’ Master Harry. 
But what can a woman do ? It did not go 
near him, I’m thinkin’. I was, all the 
time, calling on Tom to come, and cryin’ 
‘Murder!’ that you’d think my throat ’d 
split. That bloody wretgh in the gig had 
got poor Master Harry’s head back over the 
edge of it, and his knee to his chest, a strivin’ 
to break his neck across the back-rails; and 
poor dea r lad. Master Harry, hejustscritched, 
‘Villains, Mace! for God’s sake!’ They 
were the last words I ever heard from him, 
and I ’ll never forget the horrid scriich, nor 
the face of the villain that was over him 
like a beast over its prey. He was tuggin’ 
at his throat, like you ’d be tryin’ to tear up 


a tree by the roots — you never see such a 
face. His teeth was set, and the froth 
cornin’ through, and his black eyebrows 
screwed together, you’d think they’d crack 
the thin hooked nose of him between them ; 
and he pantin’ like a wild beast. He looked 
like a madman, I tell you; ’twas bright 
moonlight, and the trees bare, and the 
shadows of the branches was switchin’ 
across his face.” 

“You saw that face distinctly?” asked 
David Arden. 

“ As clear as yours this minute.” 

“ Now tell me — and think first — was he 
a bit like that Mr. Longcluse, whose appear- 
ance startled you the other evening?” asked 
Mr. Arden, in a very low tone, and with 
his eyes fixed on her intensely. 

“No, no, no, not a bit. He had a small 
mouth and white teeth, and a great beak of 
a nose. No, no, no, not he. I saw him 
strike somethin’ that shone — a knife or a 
dagger — into the poor lad’s throat, and he 
struck it down at my head, as you know, 
and I mind nothin’ after that. I ’ll cafry 
the scar o’ that murderer’s blow to my 
grave. There’s the whole story, and God 
forgi’e ye for asking me, for it gi’es me ’t 
creepins for a week after; and I didn’t con- 
ceit ’t would ’a’ made me sa excited, sir, or 
I would not ’a’ bargained to tell it to-night 

— not that I blame ye, Master David, for I 
thought, myself, that I could bear it better 

— and I do believe, as I have gone so far in 
it, ’t is better to make but one job of it, and 
a finish. So ye ’ll ask me any question ye 
like, and I ’ll make the best answer I can ; 
only. Master David, ye ’ll not be o’er long 
about it?” 

“ You are a good creature, Martha. I am 
sorry to pain you, but I pain myself, and 
you know why I ask these questions.” 

“ Ay, sir, and I’d rather hear ye ask them 
than see you sit as easy under all that as 
some does, that owed the poor fellow as 
much love as ever you did, and were as near 
akin.” 

“ I am puzzled, Martha, and hitherto I 
have been baffled, but I won’t give it up 
yet. You say that the wretch who struck 
you was a singular-looking njan, at least as 
you describe him’. I know, Martha, I can 
rely .upon your caution — you will not re- 
peat to any one what passes in our inter- 
view.” He lowered his voice. “ You do 
not think that this Mr. Longcluse — a rich 
gentleman, you know, and a person who 
thinks he’s of some consequence, a person 
at whom we must not look, you know, as if 
he had two heads — you really don’t think 
.that this Mr. Longcluse has any resemblance 
to the villain whom you saw stab my 
brother, and who struck you ? ” 

“ Not he — no more than I have. No, no, 
Mr. Longcluse is quite another sort of face ; 
but for all that, when he came in here, and 
I saw him before me, his face reminded me 
of that night.” ’ ' 


56 


CHECKMATE. 


“ How was that, Martha ? Did he resem- 
ble the other man — the man who was aid- 
ing];? ” 

“ That fellow was hanged, ye ^11 mind, 
Master David.” 

“ Yes, but a likeness might have struck, 
and startled you.” 

“ No, sir — no, Master Richard, not him ; 
surely, not him. I can’t bring it to mind, 
but it frightens me. It is queer, sir. All 
I can say for certain is this. Master David. 
The minute I heard his voice, and got sight 
of his face, like that,” and she dropped her 
hand on the table, “the thought of that awful 
night came back, bright and cold, sir, and 
them black shadows — ’t was all about me, 

I can’t tell how, and I hope I ma}’’ never see 
him again.” 

“ Do you think there was another man by, 
beside the two villains in the gig?” sug- 
gested David Arden. 

“Not a living soul except them and my- 
self. Poor Master Harry said to Tom Clin- 
ton, ye ’ll mind, for he lived half-an-hour 
after, and spoke a little, though faint and 
with great labor, and says he, ‘ There were 
two ; Yelland Mace killed me, and Tom 
Todry took the money.’ Tom Clinton heard 
him say that, and swore to it before the jus- 
tice o’ peace, and after on the trial. No, 
no, there was n’t a soul there but they two 
villains, and the poor dear lad they mur- 
dered, and me and Tom Clinton, that might 
as well a’ bin in York for any good we did. 
Oh, no. Heaven forbid I should be so un- 
mannerly as compare a gentleman like Mr. 
Long(duse to such folk as that ! Oh, lawk, 
no, sir ! But there ’s something, there ’s a 
look — or a sound in his voice — I can’t get 
round it quite — but it reminds me of some- 
thing about that night, with a start like, I 
can’t tell how — something unlucky and aw- 
ful — and I would not see him again for a 
deal.” 

“ Well, Martha, a thousand thanks. I ’m 
puzzled, as I said. Perhaps it is only some- 
thing strange in his face that caused that 
odd misgiving. For 7, who saw but one of 
the wretches engaged in the crime, the man 
who was convicted, who certainly did not, in 
the slightest degree, resemble Mr. Long- 
cluse, experienced the same unpleasant sen- 
sation on first seeing him. I don’t know 
how it is, Martha, but the idea clings to me, 
as it does to you. Some light may come. 
Something may turn up. I can’t get it out 
of my mind that somehow, it maybe circuit- 
ously, he has, at least, got the thread in his 
fingers that may lead us right. Good night, 
Martha. I have got the Bible with large 
print you wished for ; I hope you will like 
the binding. And now, God bless you ! it is 
time I should bid them good night up stairs. 
Farewell, my good old friend.” And, so 
saying, he shook her hard and shrivelled 
hand. 

His steps echoed along the long tiled 
passage, with its one dim light, and his 


mind was still haunted by its one obscure 
idea. 

“ It is strange,” he thought, “ that Martha 
and I, the only two living persons, I believe, 
who care still for poor Harry, and feel alike 
respecting the expiation that is due to his 
memory, should both have been struck with 
the same odd feeling on seeing Longcluse. 
From that white sinister face, it seems to me, 
I know not why, will shine the light that 
will yet clear all up.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A WALK BY MOONLIGHT. 

While Martha Tansey was telling her 
grisly story in the housekeeper’s room, and 
David Arden listening to the oft-told tale, 
for sake of the possible new lights which 
the narration might throw upon his present 
theory, the little party in the drawing-room 
had their music and their talk. Mr. Long- 
cluse sang the song Avhich, standing beside 
uncle David on the landing, near the great 
window on the staircase, we have faintly 
heard ; and then he sang that other song, 
of the goblin wooer, at Alice’s desire. 

“ AYas the poor girl fool enough to accept 
his invitation ? ” inquired Miss Maubray. 

“ That I really can’t say,” laughed Mr. 
Longcluse. 

“ Yes, indeed, poor thing ! I so hope she 
didn’t,” said Lady May. 

“ It’s very likely she did,” interposed Sir 
Reginald, opening his eyes — every one 
thought he was dozing — “nothing more 
foolish, and, therefore, nothing more likely. 
Besides, if she did'n’t, she probably did 
worse. Better to go straight to the devil ” — 

“Oh! dear Reginald!” exclaimed Lady 
May. 

“ Than by a tedious circumbendibus. I 
suppose her parents' highly disapproved of 
the goblin ; was n’t that alone an excellent 
reason for going away with him ? ” 

And Sir Reginald closed his eyes again. 

“Perhaps,” said Miss Maubray, aside to 
A^ivian Darnley, “ that romantic young ladv 
may have had a cross papa, and thought 
that she could not change very much for the 
worse.” 

“Shall I tell that to Sir Reginald — it 
would amuse him ?” inquired Darnley. 

“ Not as my remark ; but I make you a 
present of it, if you like to make it.” 

“ 'Phanks ; but that, even with your per- 
mission, would be a plagiarism, and robbing 
'you of Sir Reginald’s applause.” 

Vivian Darnley was very inattentive to 
his own nonsense. He was talking very 
much at random, for his mind and occa- 
sionally his eyes were otherwise occupied. 

Alice Arden was sitting near the piano, 
and talking to Air. Longcluse. 

“ Is that meant to be a ghost, I wonder, 


C H E C K M A T E. 


57 


in our sense, like the "host of Wilhelm in j 
the ballad of Leonora; or is the lover a] 
demon ? ” j 

“ A demon, surely,’’ answered Longcliise ; 
“a spirit appointed to her destruction. In 
an old ghosty writer there is a Latin sen- 
tence, which I will translate — Unicui- 
que nascenti, adest doemon vitce mystagogus 

There is present at the birth of every hu- 
man being a demon, who is the conductor of 
his life’). Be it fortunate, or be it direful, 
to this supernatural influence he owes it all. 
So they thought ; and to families such a de- 
mon is allotted also, and they prosper or 
wane as his function is ordained. I wonder 
whether such demons ever enter into human 
beings, and, in the shape of living men, 
haunt, plague, and ruin their predestinated 
victims? ” 

This sort of mysticism for a time they 
talked, and then wandered away to other 
themes, and the talk grew general, and Mr. 
Longcluse, with a pang, discovered that it 
was late. 

He had something on his mmd that night. 
He had an undivulged use, also, to which to 
apply David Arden. As the hour drew near 
it weighed more and more heavily at his 
heart. That hour must be observed. He 
wished to be at home before it arrived. 
There was still ample time ; but Lady May 
was now talking of going, and he made up 
his mind to say farewell. 

Lingeringly. Mr. Longcluse took his leave. 
But go he must ; and so, a last touch of the 


hand, a last look, and the parting is over. 
Down stairs he runs ; his groom and his 
brougham are at the door. 

What a glorious moon I The white light 
upon all things round is absolutely dazzling. 
How sharp and black the shadows! How 
light and filmy rises the old house ! How 
black the nooks of the thick ivy ! Every 
drop of dew that hangs upon its leaves or on 
the drooping stalks of the neglected grass is 
transmuted into diamond, and spai-kles like 
a brilliant. As he stands upon the broad 
platform of the steps, he looks round with a 
deep sigh, and with a strange smile of rap- 
ture. 

The man standing with the open door of 
the brougham in his hand caught his eye. 

“ Go you down as far as the little church, 
before you reach the ‘Guy of Warwick,’ in 
the village, quite close to this — yon know 
it — and wait there for me. I shall walk.” 

The man touched his hat, shut the door, 
and mounted the box beside the driver, and 
away went the brougham. 

Mr. ’Longcluse lit a cigarette, and slowly 
walked down the broad avenue after the 
vehicle. 

By the time he had got about half way, 
he heard the iron gate swing together, the 
sound of the wheels was lost in distance, and 
the feeling of seclusion returned. 

In the same vague intoxication of poetry 
and romance, he paused and looked round 
again, and sighed. The trunk of a groat 
tree overthrown in the last year’s autumnal 



58 


CHECKMATE. 


gales, with some of its boughs lopped off, 
lay on the grass at the edge of the avenue. 

There remained a little of his cigarette to 
smoke, and the temptation of this natural 
seat was irresistible ; so he took it, and 
smoked, and gazed, and dreamed, and some- 
times, as he took the cigarette from his lips, 
ho sighed — never was man in a more ro- 
mantic vein. 

He looked back on the noble front of the 
picturesque old house. The cold mwinlight 
gleamed on most of the window-panes ; but 
from a few tall windows glowed faintly the 
warmer light of candles. 

If any one had ever felt the piercing storms 
of life, the treachery of his species, and the 
mendacity of the illusions that surround us, 
Longcluse was that man. He had accepted 
the conditions of life, and was a man of the 
world ; but no boy of eighteen was ever more 
in love than he at this moment. 

Gazing back at the dim glow that flushed 
through the tall window-blinds of the distant 
drawing-room, his fancy weaving all those 
airy dreams that passion lives in, this pale, 
solitary man — whom no one quite knew, 
who trusted no one, who had his peculiar 
passions, his sorrows, his fears, and strange 
remembrances ; everything connected with 
his origin, vicissitudes, and character, except 
this one wild hope, locked up, as it were, in 
an iron casket, and buried in a grave fathoms 
deep — was now floated back, he knew not 
how, to that time of sweet perturbation and 
agonizing hope at which the youth of Shak- 
speare's time were wont to sigh like furnace, 
and indite woful ballads to their mistress's 
eyebrows. 

Now he saw lights in an upper room. 
Imagination and conjecture were in a mo- 
ment at work. No servant’s apartment, its 
dimensions were too handsome ; and had 
not Sir Reginald mentioned that his room 
was upon a level with the hall? Just at this 
moment Lady May’s carriage drove down 
the avenue and past him. Yes, she bad run 
up direct to her room on bidding Lady May 
good night. How he drank in these rosy 
lights through his dark eyes ! and how their 
tremble seemed to quicken the pulsations of 
his heart ! 

Gradually his thoughts saddened, and his 
face grew dark. 

“ Two doors in life — only in this life, if 
all bishops and curates speak truth — one or 
other shut forever in the next. The gate to 
heaven, the gate to hell. Heaven! Facilis 
decensus. Life is such a sophism. Yet even 
those canting dogs in the pulpit can’t bark 
away the truth. God sees not with our eyes ! 
Revealed religion — Mahomet, Moses, Mor- 
mon, Borgia. What is the first lesson in- 
scribed by his Maker on every man’s heart, 
instinct, intellect? I read the mandate 
thus: ‘ Take the best care you can of num- 
ber one.’ Bah ! ‘ It is He who hath made 
us, and not we ourselves.’ ” 

Uncle David’s carriage now drove by. 


“ There goes that sharp girl — pretty, vain, 
and they ’re all vain ; they ought to be vain ; 
they could not please if they were not. 
Vain she is — devoured mind, soul, passion 
by vanity. Yes, and power — the lust of 
power, conquest, acquisition. She ’s greedy 
and crafty, I dare say. Oh, Alice, who was 
ever quite like you? The most beautiful, 
the best — my darling! Oh, enchantress, 
work the miracle, and make this forlorn man 
what he might be I ” 

It passed like a magic-lantern picture, and 
was gone. The distant clang of the iron 
gate was heard again, the avenue was de- 
serted and silent, and Longcluse, once more, 
alone in his dream. 

He was looking toward the house, some- 
times breaking into a few murmured words, 
sometimes smoking, and just as his cigarette 
was out he saw a figure approaching. 

It was uncle David, who Avas walking 
down the avenue. It so happened that his 
mind was at that moment busy with Mr. 
Longcluse, and it was with an odd little 
shock, therefore, that he saw the very man 
— whom he fancied by that time to be at 
least tAvo miles aAvay — rise up in his path, 
and stand before him, smiling, in the moon- 
light ^ 

“ Oh ! — Mr. Longcluse ! ” exclaimed 
David Arden, coming suddenly to a halt. 

“So it is,” said Longcluse, with a little 
laugh. “ You are surprised to find me here, 
and I fancied I had seen your carriage go 
on.” 

“ So you did ; it is Avaiting near the gate 
for me. Can I give you a seat into town?” 

“ Thanks,” said Longcluse, smiling, “mine 
is waiting for me a little further on.” 

Longcluse walked slowly on toward the 
gate, AAuth David Arden at his side. 

“ My ward, Miss Maubray, has gone on 
with Lady May, and Darnley went with 
them. So I ’m not such a brute as I should 
be if I were making a young lady wait while 
I was enjoying the moonlight.” 

“ It was this wonderful moon that led me, 
also, into this night-ramble on foot,” said 
Mr. Longcluse; “I found the temptation 
absolutely irresistible.” 

As they thus talked, Mr. Longcluse had 
formed the resolution of making, at that 
moment, a confidence which, considering 
how slender was his acquaintance with Mr. 
David Arden, was, to say the least, a little 
bold and odd. 

They had not very far to walk before 
reaching the gate, so, a little abruptly turn- 
ing the course of their talk,, Mr. Longcluse 
said, with a chilly little laugh, and a smile 
more pallied than ever in the moonlight — 

“By-the-by, we were talking of that 
shocking occurrence in the Saloon Tavern ; 
and connected with it, I have had two 
threatening letters.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said David Arden. 

“ Fact, I assure you,” said Mr. Longcluse, 
with a shrug and another cold little laugh. 


CHECKMATE. 


59 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MR. LONGCLUSE MAKES AN ODD CONFIDENCE. 

David Arden looked at Mr. Longcluse 
with a sudden glance, that was, for a mo- 
ment, shrinking and sharp. This confidence 
connected with such a scene chimed in, with 
a harmony that was full of pain, with the 
utterly vague suspicions that had somehow 
got into his imagination. 

“ Yes, and I have been a little puzzled,^^ 
continued Longcluse. “ They say the man 
who is his own lawyer has a fool for his 
client ; but there are other things besides law 
to which the spirit of the canon more strongly 
still applies. I think you could give me just 
the kind of advice I need, if you were not to 
think my asking it too great a liberty. I 
should not dream of doing so, if the matter 
were simply a private one, and began and 
ended in myself ; but you will see in a mo- 
ment that public interests of some value are 
involved, and I am a little doubtful whether 
the course I am taking is in all respects the 
right one. I have had two threatening 
letters ; would you mind glancing at them? 
The moon is so brilliant, one has no diffi-, 
culty in reading. This is the first. And 
may I ask you, kindly, until I shall have 
determined, I hope with your aid, upon a 
course, to treat the matter as quite between 
ourselves. I have mentioned it to but one 
other ‘person.’^’ 

‘'Certainly,'^ said David, “you have a 
right to your own terms. 

He took the letter and stopped short where 
he was, unfolding it. The light was quite 
sufficient, and he read the odd and menacing 
lettef which Mr. Longcluse had received a 
few evenings before, as we know, at Lady 
May’s. It was to the following effect : — 

Sir; — The unfortunate situation in which you stand, 
the proof being so, as you must suppose, makes it neces- 
sary for you to act considderetly, and no nonsense can be 
permited by your well wishers. The poor man has his 
conshence all one as as the rich, and must be causious as 
well as him. I can not put myself in no daiiiger for you, 
sir, nor won’t hold back the truth, so welp me. 

I have heerd tell of your boote bin took away. I would 
be hapy to lend an and, sir, to recover that property. 
How all will end otherwise I regrett. Knowing well who 
it will be that takes so much consern for your safety, you 
can not dout who I am, and if you wishes to meat me 
quiet to consult, you need only to name the place and 
time in the times newspaper, wich I sees it every day. 
It must be put part in one days times, for the daite, say- 
ing a frend will show on sich a night, and in next days 
times for the place, saying the dogs will meet at sich and 
sich a place, and it shall hev the atenshen of your 

Fast Frend. 

“ That 's a cool letter, upon my word,” 
said David Arden. “ Have you an idea who 
wrote it? ” 

“ Yes, a very good guess. I ’ll tell you all 
that if you allow me, just now. I should 
say, indeed, an absolute certainty, for I have 
had another this afternoon with the name of 
the writer signed, and he turns out to be the 
very man whom I suspected. Here it is.” 

David Arden’s curiosity was piqued. He 
took, the last note and read as follows — 


Sir : — My last Letter must have came to Hand, and you 
been in Reseet of it since the 11th instant, has took no 
Notise thereoff, I have No wish except for justice, as you 
may Suppose, and has no Fealing against you Mr Long- 
cluse Persanelly and to shew you plainly that Such is the 
case, I will meet you for an Intervue if such is your 
Wishes in your Own house, if you should Rayther than 
name another place I do not objock To one frend been 
Present providing such Be not a lawyer. The subjeck 
been Dellicat, I will Attend any hour and Place j’ou apoint. 
If you should fail^I must put my Proofs in the hands of 
the police, for I will take it for a sure sine of guilt if you 
fail after this to apoint for a meating. 

I remain, Sir, Your obedient servent, 

No. 2, Rosemary Court. Paul Davies. 

“Well, that’s pretty frank,” said Long- 
cluse, observing that he had read to the 
end. 

“Extremely. What do you suppose his 
object to be — to extort money ? ” 

“ Possibly ; but he may have another ob- 
ject. In any case he wants to make money 
by this move.” 

“Very audacious, then. He must know, 
if he is fit for his trade, how much risk 
there is in it: a«d his signing his name and 
address to his letter, and seeking an inter- 
view with a witness by, seems to me utterly 
infatuated,” said David Arden, with his eye 
upon Mr. Longcluse. 

“ So it does, except upon one supposition ; 
I mean that the man believes his story,” said 
Mr. Longcluse, walking beside him, for they 
had resumed their march toward the gate. 

“ Really 1 believes that you committed the 
murder ?” said uncle David, again coming to 
a halt and looking full at him. 

“ I can’t account for it otherwise,” said 
Longcluse ; “ and I think the right course 
for me is to meet him. But I have no inti- 
macies in London, and that is my difficulty.” 

“How? Why don’t you arrest him?” 
said David Arden. 

David Arden had seldom felt so oddly. A 
quarter of an hour since, he had expected to 
have been seated in his carriage with his 
w’^ard and Vivian Darnley, driving into town 
in quiet humdrum fashion, by this time. 
How like a dream w^as the actual scene ! 
Here he was, standing on the grass, among 
the noble timber, under the moonlight, with 
the pale face beside him which had begun 
to haunt him so oddly. The strange smile 
of his mysterious companion, the cold tones 
that jarred sweetly, somehow, on his ear, 
lending a sinister eccentricity to the extra- 
ordinary confession he was making. 

In this situation, which had come about 
almost unaccountably, there was a strange 
feeling of unreality. Was this man, from 
whom he had felt an indescribable repulsion, 
now by his side, and drawing him, in this 
solitude, into a mysterious confidence ? and 
had not this confidence an unaccountable 
though distant relation to the vague suspi- 
cions that had touched his mind? 

With a little efibrt he resumed ; 

I beg pardon, but if the case were mine 
I should put the letters at once into the 
hands of the police and prosecute him.” 

“ Precisely my own first impulse. But the 


60 


CHECKMATE. 


letters are more cautiously framed than you 
might at first sight suppose. I should be 
placed in an awkward position were my 
prosecution to fail. / am obliged to think 
of this because, although I am nothing to 
the public, I am a good deal to myself. But 
I 've resolved to take a course not less bold, 
though less public. I am detei»mined to meet 
him face to face with an unexceptionable 
witness present, and to discover distinctly 
whether he acts from fraud or delusion, and 
then to proceed accordingly. I have com- 
municated with him.^^ 

“Oh, really!” 

“Yes, I was clear I ought to meet him ; 
but I would consent to nothing with an air 
of concealment.” 

“ I think you were right, sir.” 

“ He wanted our meeting by night on 
board a Thames boat ; then in a dilapidated 
house in Southwark ; then in a deserted 
house that is to be let in Thames Street ; 
but I named my own house,in Bolton Street, 
at half-past twelve to-night.” 

“ Then you really wish to see him. I sup- 
pose you have thought it well over ; but I 
am always for taking such miscreants 
promptly by the throat. However, as you 
say, cases differ, and I dare say you are well 
advised.” 

“ And now may I venture a request, 
which, were it not for two facts within my 
knowledge, I should not presume to make. 
But I venture it to you, who take so special 
an interest in this case, because you have 
already taken trouble, and, like myself, con- 
tributed money to aid the chances of dis- 
covery; and because only this evening you 
said you would bestow more labor, more 
time, and more money with pleasure to pro- 
cure the least chance of an additional light 
upon it: now it strikes me as just possible 
that the writer of those letters may be, to 
some extent, honest. Though utterly mis- 
taken about me, still he may have evidence 
to give, be it worth much or little ; and so, 
Mr. Arden, having the pleasure of being 
known to some members of your family, al- 
though till to-ni^ht by name only to you, I 
beg as a great kindness to a man in a difii- 
Culty, and possibly in the interest of the 
public, that you will be so good as to accom- 
pany me, and be present at the interview, 
that cannot be so well conducted before any 
other witness whom I can take with me.” 

David Arden paused for a moment, but 
independently quite of his interest in this 
case ; he felt a strange curiosity about this 
pale man, whose eyes from under their ob- 
lique brows gleamed back the cold moon- 
light; while a smile, the character of which 
a little puzzled him, curled his nostril and 
his thin lip, and showed the glitterinp; edge 
of his teeth. ^ ^ ^ 

Did it look like treachery? or was it de- 
fiance, or derision? It was a face, thus 
seen, so cadaverous and Mephistophelian, 
that an artist would have given something 


for a minute to fix a note of it in white and 
black. 

David Arden was not to be disturbed in a 
practical matter by a pictorial effect, how- 
ever, and in another moment he said : 

“ Yes, Mr. Longcluse, as you desire it, I 
will accompany you, and see this fellow, 
and hear what he has to say. Certainly” 

“That^s very kind — only what I should 
have expected, also, from your public spirit. 
I^m extremely obliged.” 

They resumed their walk toward the gate. 

“ I shall get into my brougham and call at 
home, to tell them not to expect me for an 
hour or so. And what is the number of your 
house?” 

He told him ; and David Arden having 
offered to take him, in his carriage, to the 
place where his own awaited him, which 
however he declined, they parted for a little 
time, and Mr. Arden^s brougham quickly 
disappeared under the shadow of the tall 
trees that lined the curving road. 

As David Arden drove toward town, his 
confusion rather increased. Why should 
Mr. Longcluse select him for this confidence ? 
There were men in the city whom he must 
know, if not intimately, at least much better 
than he knew him. It w^as a very strange 
occurrence ; and was not Mr. Longcluse^s 
manner, also, strange? Was he not, some- 
how, very oddly cool under a charge of 
murder? There was something, it seemed, 
indefinably incongruous in the nature of his 
story, his request, and his manner. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

•> 

THE MEETING. 

It was five or ten minutes before the ap- 
pointed time when David Arden and Long- 
cluse met in the latter gentleman’s “study” 
in Bolton Street. There was a slight, odd 
flutter at Longcluse’s heart, although his 
pale face betrayed no sign of agitation, as 
the shuflling tread of a foot on the step was 
heard on the door-steps, followed by a faint 
knock like that of a tremulous postman. It 
was the preconcerted summons of Mr. Paul 
Davies. 

Longcluse smiled at David Arden and 
raised his finger, as he lightly drew near the 
room-door, with an air’ of warning. He 
wished to remind his companion that he was 
to receive their visitor alone. Mr. Arden 
nodded, and Mr. Longcluse withdrew. In a, 
minute more the servant opened the study 
door, and said : 

“ Mr. Davies, sir.” 

And the tall ex-detective entered, and 
looked with a silly simper stealthily to the 
right and to the left from the corners of his 
eyes, and glided in, shutting the door behind 
him. 

Uncle David received this man without 


• CHECKMATE. 


61 


even a nod. He eyed him sternly, from his 
chair at the end of the table. 

“ Sit in that chair, please,'^ said he, point- 
ing to a seat at the other end. 

The ex-policeman made his b6st bow,’ and 
turning out his toes very much, he shuffled, 
with his habitual sly smirk on, to the chair, 
in which he seated himself, and with his big 
red hands on the table began turning, and 
twisting, and twiddling a short pencil, which 
was a good deal bitten at the uncut end, be- 
tween his fingers and thumbs. 

“You came here to see Mr. Longcluse?*^ 
asked David Arden. 

“ A few words of business at his desire. 
Sir, I ask your parding, I came, sir, by his 
wishes, not mine, which has brought me 
here at his request.^' 

“ And who am I, do you suppose ? ” 

The man, still smiling, looked at him 
shrewdly. 

“ Well, I don't know, I 'm sure ; I may a’ 
seen you." 

“ Did you ever see that gentleman ? " said 
David Arden as Mr. Longcluse entered the 
room. 

The ex-detective looked also shrewdly at 
Longcluse, but without any light of recogni- 
tion. 

“ I may have seen him, sir. Yes, I saw 
him in Saint George's, Hanover Square, the 
day Lord Charles Dillingsworth married 
Miss Wygram, the hairess. I saw him at 
Sydenham the second week in February last, 
when the Freemasons' dinner was there; 
and I saw him on the night of the match be- 
tween Hood and Markham, at the Saloon 
Tavern." 

“Do you know my name?" said David 
Arden. 

“ Well, no, I don't at present remember." 
“ Do you know that gentleman's name ? " 
“ His name? " 

“ Av, his name." 

“ Well, no; I may have heard it, and I 
may bring it to mind, by-and-by." 

Longcluse smiled and shrugged, looking 
at Mr. Arden, and he said to the man — 

“ So you don't know that gentleman's 
name, nor mine ? " 

The man looked at each, hard and a little 
anxiously, like a person who feels that he 
may be making a very serious mistake ; but 
after a pause he said, decisively — 

“ No, I don't at present. I say I don't 
know your names, either of you, gentlemen, 
and I donH” 

The two gentlemen exchanged glances. 

“ Is either of us as tall as Mr. Longcluse?" 
asked David Arden, standing up. 

The man stood up also, to make his inspec- 
tion. 

“You're both," he said after a pause, 
“ much about his height." 

“ Is either of us like him ? " 

“No," answered Davies, after a pause. 

“ Did you write these letters? " asked Mr. 
Longcluse, laughing. 


“ Well, I did, or I did nH, and what 's that 
to you ? " 

“ Something, as you shall know present- 
ly." 

“ I think you 're trying it on. I reckon 
this is a bit of a plant. I don't care a 
scratch o' that pencil, if it be. I wrote them 
letters, and I said nothin' but what 's true, 
and I '11 go with you now to the station, if 
you like, and tell all I knows." 

The fellow seemed nettled, and laughed 
viciously a little, and swaggered at the close 
of his speech. 

The faintest flush imaginable tinged Long- 
cluse's forehead, as he shot a searching 
glance at him. 

“ No, we don't want that," said Longcluse; 
“but you maybe of more use in another 
way, although just now you are in the wrong 
box, and have mistaken your man, for / am 
Mr. Longcluse. You have been misinform- 
ed, you see, as to the identity of the person 
you suspect ; but some person you have, no 
doubt, in your mind, and possibly a case 
worth sifting, although you have been de- 
ceived as to his name. Describe the appear- 
ance of the man you supposed to be. Mr. 
Longcluse. You may be frank with me ; I 
mean you no harm." 

“ I defy any man to harm me, sir, if you 
please, so long as I do my dooty," said Paul 
Davies. “ Mr. Longcluse, if that be his 
name, the man I mean, he's about your 
height, with round shoulders and red hair, 
and talks with a north-country twang on his 
tongue ; he 's a bit rougher, and a swagger- 
in' cove, and a yard o' red beard over his 
waistcoat, and bigger hands a deal than you, 
and broader feet." 

“ And have you a case against him ?" 

“ Partly, but it ain’t, sir, if you please, 
by no means so complete as would answer as 
yet. If I was sure you were really Mr. 
Longcluse I could say more, for I partly 
guess who this other gent is — a most re- 
spectable party. I think I do know you, 
sir, by appearance ; if you had your 'at on, 
sir, I could say to a certainty. But I think, 
sir, if you please, I 'm not very far wrong 
when I say that I would identify you for Mr. 
David Arden." 

“ So I am ; that is quite true.” 

“ Thank you, sir, I am obleeged ; that 's 
very quietin' to my mind, sir, having full 
confidence in your character ; and if you, 
sir, please to tell me, that gentleman is un- 
doubtingly Mr. Longcluse, the proprietor of 
this house. I must a' been let into a mis- 
take ; I don't think they was a-greenin’ of 
me, but it was a mistake, if you please, sir, 
if you say so." 

“This is Mr. Longcluse — I know of no 
other — and he resides in this house," said 
David Arden. “ But if you have informa- 
tion to give respecting that red-bearded fel- 
low, there is no reason why you should not 
give it forthwith to the police." 

“ Parding me, sir, if you please, Mr. Ar- 


62 


CHECKMATE. 


den. There is, I would say, strong reasons 
for a poor man in rayther anxious circum- 
stances, like myself, sir, ^aving an affection- 
ate mother to, in a measure, support, and 
been himself unfortunately rayther hard up, 
he can’t answer it nohow to his conscience 
if he lets a hoppertunity like the present 
pass him and his aged mother by, unim- 
proved. There been a reward offered, sir, I 
naturally wish, sir, if you please, Mr. Ar- 
den, to earn it myself % valuable evidence 
leading to the conviction of the guilty cove ; 
and if I was to tell all I knows and ’av’ 
made out by my own hindustry to the force, 
sir, other persons would, don’t you conceive, 
sir, draw the reward, and me and my mother 
should go without. If I could get a hinter- 
view with the man I ’av’ been a-gettin’ 
things together for, I ’d lead him, I ’av’ no 
doubt, to make such hadmissions as would 
clench the prosecution, and vindicate justice.” 

“ I see what you mean,” said David Arden. 

“ And fair enough, I think,” added Long- 
cluse. 

The ex-detective cleared his voice, shook 
his head, and smirked. 

“ A hinterview, gentlemen,” said he, “ is 
worth much in the hands of a persuasive 
party. I have hanged several obnoxious 
characters, and let others in for penal for 
life, by means of a hinterview. You re- 
member Spikes, gentlemen, that got seven 
penn’orth for breaking Mr. Winterbotham’s 
desk? Spikes would have frusterated justice, 
if it was n’t for me. It was done in one 
hinterview. Says I, ‘ Mr. Spikes, you have 
a wife and five children.’ ” 

The recollection of Mr. Paul Davies’ diplo- 
macy was so gratifying to that smiling gen- 
tleman, that he could not forbear winking at 
his auditors as he proceeded. 

And my belief is, Mr. Spikes, sir,’” 
he continued, “ ‘ that it was all the hinflu- 
ence of Tom Sprowles. It was Sprow-les 
persuaded yer, it was him as got the whole 
thing up. That’s my belief; and you did 
not want to do it, no-wise, and only consent- 
ed to force the henges, in the belief that 
Sprowles wanted to read the papers, and no 
more. I have a bad opinion of Sprowles,’ 
says I, ‘for deceiving you, I may say, inno- 
cently ; ’ and talking this way, you conceive, 
I got it all out of him, and he ’s under penal 
for life. Whenever you want to get round 
a man, and to turn him inside out, your way 
is to sympathise with him. If I had but a 
hinterview with that man, I know enough to 
draw it out of him, every bit. It’s all done 
by sympathiSm(7.” 

“ But do you think you can discover the 
man?” asked Mr. Arden. 

“lam sure to make him out, if you please, 
sir; I’ll find out all about him. I ’d a 
found out the facks long ago, but for the 
mistake, which it occurred most unlucky. 
I saw him twice sence, and I know well 
where to look for him ; and I ’ll have it all 
right before long, I’m thinkin’.” 


“ That will do, then, for the present,” said 
Mr. Longcluse. “ You have said all you 
have to say, and you see into what a serious 
mistake you have blundered ; but I shan’t 
give you aliy trouble about it — it is too 
ridiculous. Good night, Mr. Davies.” 

“No mistake of mine, sir, please. Misin- 
formed, sir, you will kindly remark — mis- 
informed, if you please — misinformed, as 
may occur to the sharpest party going. Good 
night, gentlemen ; I takes my leave without 
no unpleasant feelin’, and good wishes for 
your ’ealth and ’appiness, both, gentlemen.” 
And blandly, and with a sly, sleepy smile, 
this insinuating person withdrew. 

“ It is the reward he is thinking of,” said 
Longcluse. 

“Yes, he won’t spare himself; you men- 
tioned that your own suspicions respecting 
him were but vague,” said David Arden. 

“ I merely stated what I saw to the coroner, 
and it was answered that he was watching 
the Frenchman, Lebas, because the detective 
police, before Paul Davies’ dismissal, had 
received orders to keep an eye on all foreign- 
ers ; and he hoped to conciliate the author- 
ities, and get a pension, by collecting and 
furnishing information. The police did not 
seem to think his dogging and watching the 
unfortunate little fellow really meant more 
than this.” 

“ Very likely. It is a very odd affair* I 
wonder who that fellow is whom he described. 
He did not give a hint as to the circum- 
stances which excited his suspicions.” 

“It is strange. But that man, Paul 
Davies, kept his eye upon Lebas from the 
motive I mentioned, and this circumstance 
may have led to his seeing more of the mat- 
ter than, with the reward in his mind, he 
cares to make known at present. I think I 
did right in meeting him face to face.” 

“ Quite right, sir.” 

“It has been always a rule with me to go 
straight at everything. I think the best 
diplomacy is directness, and that the truest 
caution lies in courage.” 

“Precisely my opinion, Mr. Longcluse,” 
said uncle David, looking on him with eyes 
of approbation. He was near adding some- 
thing hearty in the spirit of our ancestors’ 
saying, “ I hope you and I, sir, may be better 
acquainted ; ” but something in the look and 
peculiar face of this unknown Mr. Longcluse 
chilled him, and he only said : 

“ As you say, Mr. Longcluse, courage is 
safety, and honesty the best policy. Good 
night, sir.” 

“A thousand thanks, Mr. Arden. Might 
I ask one more favor, that you will endorse on 
each of these threatening letters a memoran- 
dum of the facts of this strange interview ? — 
I mean a sentence or two, which may at any 
time confound this fellow, should he turn out 
to be a villain.” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Arden, thought- 
fully, and he sat down again, and wrote a 
few lines on the back of each, which, having 


I 


CHECKMATE. 


63 


signed, he handed them to Mr. Longcluse, 
•with the question, “Will that answer?^' 

“ Perfectly, thank you very much ; it is’ 
indeed impossible for me to thank you as I 
ought and wish to thank you,-^ said Mr. 
Longcluse with effusion, extending his hand 
at the same time ; but Mr. Arden took it 
without much warmth, and said, in compari- 
son a little dryly : 

“No need to thank me, Mr. Longcluse; 
as you said at first, there are motives quite 
sufficient, of a kind for which you can owe 
me, personally, no thanks whatsoever, to in- 
duce the very slight trouble of coming 
here.” 

“Well, Mr. Arden, I am very much 
obliged to you, notwithstanding ; ” and so he 
gratefully saw him to the door, and smiled 
and bowed him off, and stood for a moment 
as his carriage whirled down the short 
street. 

“He does not like me — nor I, perhaps, 
him. Ha ! ha ! ha I ” he laughed very softly 
and reservedly, looking down on the flags. 
“What an odd thing it is ! Those instincts 
and antipathies, they are very odd.” 

All this, except the faint laughter, was in 
thought. * 

Mr. Longcluse stepped back. He was 
negatively happy — he was rid of an anxiety. 
He was positively happy — he had been bet- 
ter received by Miss Arden this evening, 
than he had ever been before. So he wenj; 
to his bed with a light heart, and a head full 
of dreams. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

MR. LONGCLUSE FOLLOWS A SHADOW. 

All the next day, one beautiful image 
haunted Longcluse's imagination. He was 
delayed in town ; he had to consult about 
operations in foreign stocks ; he had many 
words to say, directions to modify, and calls 
to make on this man and that. He had 
hoped to be at Mortlake Hall at three o’clock. 
But it was past six before he could disen- 
tangle himself from the tenacious meshes of 
his business. 

Never had he thought it so irksome. Was 
he not rich enough — too rich? Why 
should he longer submit to a servitude so 
wearisome? It was high time he should 
begin to enjoy his days in the sunshine of 
his gold and the companionship of his beau- 
tiful idol. But “ man proposes,” says the 
ancient saw, “and God disposes.” 

It was just seven o’clock when' Mr. Long- 
cluse descended at the steps of old Mortlake 
Hall. 

Sir Reginald, who is writhing under a 
letter from the attorney of the millionaire 
mortgagee of his Yorkshire estate, making 
an alternative ofler, either to call in the 
principal sum or to allow it to stand out on 
larger interest, had begged of Mr. Long- 


cluse, last night, to give him a few words of 
counsel some day. 

He had, in a quiet talk the evening before, 
taken the man of huge investments rather 
into his confidence. 

“ I don’t know, Mr. — a — Mr. Longcluse, 
whether you are aware how cruelly my 
property is tied up,” he said, as he talked in 
a low tone with him, in a corner of the large 
drawing-room. “ A life estate, and my son, 
who declines bearing any part of the burden 
of his own extravagance, will do nothing to 
facilitate my efforts to pay his debts for him ; 
and I vow to Heaven, if they raise the in- 
terest on this very oppressive mortgage, I 
don’t know how on earth I can possibly pay 
my insurances. I don’t see how I am to do 
it. I should be so extremely obliged to you, 
Mr. Longcluse, if you would, with your vast 
experience and knowledge in all — all finan- 
cial matters, give me any advice that strikes 
you — if you could with perfect convenience 
afford so much time. I don’t really kno-w 
what rate of interest is usual. I only know 
this, that interest, as a rule, has been 
steadily declining ever since I can remember 
— perpetually declining ; I mean, of course, 
upon perfect security like this ; and now this 

d d harpy wants, after ten years, to raise 

it. By heaven, I believe they want to drive 
me out of the world, among them I and they 
well know the cruelty of it, for I have never 
been able to pay them a single half-year 
punctually. Will you take some tea? ” 

So Longcluse had promised his advice 
very gladly next day ; and now he asked for 
Sir Reginald. 

Sir Reginald was very particularly en- 
gaged at this nmment on business; Mr. 
Arden was with him at present ; buliif Mr. 
Longcluse would wait for a few minutes. 
Sir Reginald would be happy to see him. 

So there was to be a little wait. How 
could he better pass the interval than in 
Miss Arden’s company ? 

Up to the drawing-room we'nt Mr. Long- 
cluse, and there he found Miss Arden finish- 
ing a dra-vsdng. He fancied a very slight 
flush on her cheek as he entered. Was there 
really a little heightening of that beautiful 
tint as she smiled ? How beautiful her long 
lashes, and her even little teeth, and the 
lustrous darkness of her eyes, in that sub- 
dued light I 

“ I so wanted advice, Mr. Longcluse, and 
you have come in so fortunately ! I am not 
satisfied with my sky and mountains, and 
the foreground where the light touches that 
withered branch is a horrible failure. In 
nature, it looked quite beautiful. I remem- 
ber it so well. It looked on fire, almost. This 
is Saxtean Castle, near Golden Friars, and 
that is a bit of the lake, and those are the 
fells. I sketched it in pencil, and trusted 
to memory for coloring. It 'U'as just at the 
most picturesque moment, when the sun was 
going down between the two mountains that 
overhang the little town on the west.” » 


G4 


CHECKMATE. 



, “ Sunset is very well expressed. You in- 
dicated all those lon^ shadows, Miss Arden, 
in pencil, and I envy your perspective, and 
I think your coloring so extremely good ! 
The distances are admirably marked. Try 
a little ochre, burnt sienna, and lake for the 
inten|p touches of light in the foreground, 
on that barkless branch. Your owm eye will 
best regulate the proportions. I am one of 
those vandals who prefer color a little too 
bold and overdone to any timidity in that 
respect. Exuberance in a beginner is always, 
in my mind, an augury of excellence. It is 
so easy to moderate afterward.’^ 

“Yes, I dare Say; I’m very glad you 
advise that, because I always thought so 
myself ; but I was half afraid to act on it. 
I think that is about the tint — a little more 
ochre, perhaps. Yes; how does it look now? 
what do you think?” 

“ Now judge yourself, Miss Arden. Do 
not those three sharp little touches of reflect- 
ed fire light up the whole drawing? I say 
it is admirable. It is really quite a beauti- 
ful little drawing.” 

“I’m growing so vain! you will quite 
spoil me, Air. Longcluse.” 

“ Truth will never spoil any one. Praise 
is very delightful. I have not had much of 
it in my day, but I think it makes one better 
as well as happier ; and to speak simple 
truth of you. Miss Arden, is inevitably to 
praise you.” 

“Those are compliments, Mr. Longcluse, 
iud they bewilder me — anything one does 


not know how to answer ; so I would rather 
you pointed me out four or five faults in my 
drawing, and I should be very well content 
if you said no more. I believe you know 
the scenery of Golden Friars.” 

“ I do. Beautiful, and so romantic, and 
full of legends ! the w^hole place with its be- 
longings is a poem.” 

“So I think. And the hotel — the inn I 
prefer calling it — the ‘George and Dragon,^ 
is so picturesque and delightfully old, and 
so comfortable! Our head-quarters were 
there for two or three weeks. And did you 
see Childe Waylin’s Leap?” 

“Yes, an awful scene; what a terrible 
precipice ! I saw it to great advantage from 
a boat, while a thunder-storm was glaring 
and pealing over its summit. You know 
the legend, of course? ” 

“ No, I did not hear it.” 

“Oh, it is a very striking one, and won’t 
take many words to tell. Shall I tell it?” 

“Pray do,” said Alice, with her bright 
look of expectation. 

lie smiled sadly. Perhaps the story re-' 
turned with an allegoric melancholy to his 
mind. 

With a sigh and a smile he continued: 

“ Childe Waylin fell in love with a phan- 
tom lady, and Avalked day and night along 
the fells, people tliought in solitude, really 
lured on by the beautiful apparition, which, 
as his love increased, grew less frequent, 
more distant and fainter, until at last, in 
the despair of his wild pursuit, he threw 




CHECKMATE. 


65 


lilmself over that terrible precipice, and so 
perished. I have faith in instinct — faith in 
passion, which is but a form of instinct. I 
am sure he did wisely.’’ 

“ I shan’t dispute it ; it is not a case 
likely to happen often. These phantom 
ladies seem to have given up practice of late 
years, or else people have become proof 
against their wiles, and neither follow, nor 
adore, nor lament them,” 

‘‘ I don’t think these phantom ladies are 
at all out of date,” said Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Well, men have grown wiser, at all 
events.” 

“ No wiser, no happier; in such a case 
there is no room for what the world calls 
wisdom. Passion is absolute, and as for 
happiness, that or despair, hangs on the 
turn of a die.” 

“ I have made that shadow a little more 
purple; do you think it an improvement?” 

“^Yes, certainly. How well it throws 
out that bit of the ruin that catches the 
sunlight! You have made a very poetical 
sketch ; you have given not merely the out- 
lines, but the character of that singular 
place — the genius loci is there.” 

Just as Mr. Longcluse had finished this 
complimentary criticism, the door opened, 
and rather unexpectedly Richard Arden en- 
tered the room. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A TETE-A-TETE. 

Vert decidedly de trap at that moment, 
his friend thought Mr. Arden. Longcluse 
meant again to have turned the current of 
their talk into the channel he liked best, and 
here was interruption. But was not Richard 
Arden his sworn brother, and was he not 
sure to make an excuse arid take his leave, 
and restore him to his Ute-d-teie ? 

But was there — or was it fancy — a 
change scarcely perceptible, but unpleasant, 
in the manner of this sworn brother ? 

Was it not very provoking, and a little 
odd, that he did not go away, but stayed on 
and on, till at length a servant came in with 
a message from Sir Reginald to Mr. Long- 
cluse, to say that he would be very happy to 
.see him whenever he chose to come to his 
room ? Mr. Longcluse was profoundly vexed. 

Richard Arden, however, had resumed his 
old manner pretty nearly. AYas the inter- 
ruption he had persisted in designed, or only 
accidental? Could he suppose Richard Ar- 
den so stupid? lie took his leave smilin*^, 
])ut with an uncomfortable misgiving at his 
heart. 

Richard Arden now proceeded in his own 
way, with some coloring and enormous sup- 
pression at discretion, to give his sister such 
an account as he thought would best answer, 
of the interview he had just had with his 

6 


father. Honestly related, what occurred be- 
tween them was strictly as follows ; — 

Richard Arden had come on summons 
from his father. Without a special call, he 
never appeared at Mortlake while his father 
was there, and never in his absence but with 
an understanding that Sir Reginald was to 
hear nothing of it. He sat for a considera- 
ble time in the apartment that opened fr(»m 
his fiither’s dressing-room. He heard the 
baronet’s peevish voice ordering Crozier 
about. Something was dropped and broken, 
and the same voice was heard in angrier 
alto. Richard Arden looked out of the win- 
dow and waited uncomfortably. He hated 
his father’s pleadings with him, and he did 
not know for what purpose he had appointed 
this interview. 

The d(X)r opened and Sir Reginald entered, 
limping a little, for his gout had returned 
slightly. He was leaning on a stick. His 
thin, dark face and prominent eyes looked 
angry, and he turned about and poked his 
dressing-room door shut with the point of his 
stick, Ijefore taking any notice of his son. 

“ Sit down, if you please, in that chair,” 
he said, pointing to the particular seat he 
meant him to occupy wdth two vicious little 
pokes, as if he were running a small-sword 
through a rat. ” I wrote to ask you to come, 
sir, merely to say a word respecting your 
sister, for whom, if not for other members of 
your family, you will retain, I suppo.se, some 
consideration and natural affection.” 

Here was a pause which Richard Arden 
did not very well know what to do with. 
However, as his father’s fierce eyes were in- 
terrogated upon him, he murmured; 

“ Certainly, sir.” 

“ Yes, and under that impression I showed 
you Lord Wynderbroke’s letter. He is to 
dine here to-morrow at quarter to eight ; 
please to recollect precisely. I)o you hear? ” 

“ I do, sir, everything.” 

“ You must meet him. Let us not appear 
more divided than w^e are. You know Wyn- 
derbroke — he’s peculiar. AVhy the devil 
should n’t we appear united? 1 don’t say he 
united, for you won’t. But there is some- 
thing owed to decency. I suppose you admit 

that? And before people, d you, sir, 

can’t we appear affectionate ? He ’s a quiet 
man, Wynderbroke, and makes a great deal 
of these domestic sentiments. So you- ’R » 
please to show some respect and affection- 
wdiile he’s present, and I mean to> show 
some affection for you ; and after that, sir, 
you may go to the devil for me t I hope you 
understand ? ” 

“ Perfectly, sir.” 

“ As to Wynderbroke, the thing is settled 
— it is there’’ He pointed to his desk. 

“ What I told you before, I tell you now — 
you must see that your sister does n’t make 
a fool of herself. I have nothing more to say 
to you at present — unless you have some- 
thing to say to me? ” 

This latter part of the sentence had some- 


66 


CHECKMATE. 


thing sharp and interrogative in it. There 
was just a chance, it seemed, to imply that 
his son might have something to say upon 
the one point that lay near the old man’s 
heart. 

“ Nothing, sir,” said Richard, rising. 

“No, no ; so I supposed. You may go, 
sir — nothing.” 

Of this interview, one word of the real 
purport of which he could not tell to his 
sister, he gave her an account very slight 
indeed, but rather pleasant. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE GARDEN AT MORTLAKE. 

Alice leaned back in her chair, smiling, 
and very much pleased. 

“ So my father seems disposed to relent 
ever so little, and. ever so little, you know, 
is better than nothing,” said Richard Arden. 

“I’m so glad, Dick, that he wishes you to 
take your dinner with us to-morrow ; it is a 
very good sign. It would be so delightful 
if you could be at home with us, as you used 
to be.” 

“You are a good little soul, Alice — a 
dear little thing ! This is very pretty,” he 
said, looking at her drawing. “ What is it ? ” 

“The ruined castle near the northern end 
of the lake at Golden Friars. Mr. Longcluse 
says it is pretty good. Is he to dine here, 
do you know ? ” 

“No — I don’t know — I hope not,” said 
Richard, shortly. 

“ Hope not ! why ? ” said she. “ I thought 
you liked him extremely.” 

“ I thought he was very well for a sort of 
out-door’s acquaintance for men; but I don’t 
even think that, now. There’s no use in 
speaking to Lady May, but I warn you — 
you had better drop him. There is very 
little known about him, but there is a great 
deal that is not pleasant said” 

“Really?” 

“ Yes, really.” 

“ But you used to speak so ‘highly of him. 
I ’m so surprised.” 

“ I did not know half what people said of 
him. I ’ve heard a great deal since.” 

“ But is it true ? ” asked Alice. 

“ It is nothing to me whether it is true or 
not. It is quite enough if a man is talked 
about uncomfortably, to make it unpleasant 
to know him. We owe nothing to Mr. Long- 
cluse ; there is no reason why you should 
have an acquaintance that is not desirable. 
I mean to drop him quietly, and jmu can’t 
know him, really you must n’t, Alice.” 

“ I don’t know. It seems to me very 
hard,” said Miss Alice, spiritedly. “ It is 
not many days since you spoke of him so 
highly ; and I was quite pained when you 
came in just now. I don’t know whether 
ho perceived it, but I tliink ho must. I only 


know that I thought you were so cold and 
strange to him, your manner so unlike what 
is always was before. I thought you had 
been quarrelling. I fancied he was vexed, 
and I felt quite sorry ; and I don’t think 
what you say, Richard, is manly, or like 
yourself. You used to praise him so, and 
fight his battles ; and he is, though very 
eminent in some ways, rather a stranger in 
London ; and people, you told me, envy him, 
and try in a cowardly way to injure him ; 
and what more easy than to hint discredit- 
able things of people ? and you did not 
believe a word of those reports when last 
you spoke of him ; and considering that he 
had no people to stand by him in London, or 
to take nis part, and that he may never even 
hear the things that are said by low people 
about him, don’t you think it would be cow- 
ardly of us, and positively base, to treat him 
so ? ’’ 

“ Upon my word. Miss Alice, that is very 
good oratory indeed? I don’t think I ever 
heard you so eloquent before, at least upon 
the wrongs oLone of my sex.” 

“ Now, Dick, that sneer won’t do. There 
may possibly be reasons why it would have 
made Mr. Longcluse’s acquaintance; 1 can’t 
say. Those reasons, however, you treated 
very lightly indeed a little time ago — yon 
know you did — and now, upon no better, 
you say you are going to cut him. 1 can’t 
bring myself to do any such thing. He is 
always looking in at Lady May’s, and I 
can’t help meeting him unless 1 am to cut 
her also. Now don’t you see how odious I 
should appear, and how impossible it is?” 

“ I won’t argue it now, dear Alice ; there 
is quite time enough. I shall come an hour 
before dinner, to-morrow, and we can have, 
you and I, a quiet talk ; and I am cfaite sure 
I shall convince you. Mind, I don’t say we 
should insult him,” he laughed. “ I only 
say this, and I ’ll maintain it — and I ’ll show 
you why — that he is not a desirable ac- 
quaintance. AVe have taken him up very 
foolishly, and we must drop him. And now, 
darling, good-by.” 

He kissed her — she kissed him. She 
looked grave for a moment after he had run 
down the stairs. 

He had quarrelled with Mr. Longcluse 
about something, she thought, as she stood 
at the window with the tip of her finger to 
her lip, looking at her brother as he mounted 
the showy horse which had cantered wdth 
him up and down Rotten Row for two hours 
or more, before he had ridden out to Mort- 
lake. She saw him now ride away, ItAvas 
near eight o’clock, and all this time Mr. 
Longcluse had been in conference with Sir 
Reginald about his miserable mortgage. 
Mr. Longcluse was cautious. But there 
floated in his mind certain possible contin- 
gencies, under which he might perhaps make 
the financial adjustment which Sir Reginald 
desired, very easy indeed to the worthy bar- 
onet. 


CHECKMATE. 


67 


It was the tempting hour of evening when 
the birds begin to sing, and the level beams 
from the west flood all objects with ruddy 
tint. She put on her hat and ran out to the 
old gardens of Mortlake. They are enclosed 
in a gray wall, and lie one above the other 
in three terraces, with tall standard fruit- 
trees, so old that their fruit was now dwarfed 
in size to half its earlier bearings, standing 
high with a dark and sylvan luxuriance, and 
at this moment sheltering, among their sun- 
lit leaves, the small birds whose whistlings 
cheered the saddened evening air. 

Every tree and bush that bore fruit, in this 
old garden, had grown quite beyond the com- 
mon stature of its kind, and a good gardener 
would have cut them all down fifty years ago. 
But there was a kind of sylvan and stately 
beauty in those wonderfully lofty pear-trees, 
with their dense dark foliage, and in the 
standard cherries so tall and prim, and some- 
thing homely and comfortable in the great 
straggling apples and plums, dappled with 
gray lichens and tufted with moss. There 
were flowers as well as fruits of all sorts, in 
^ this garden. All its arrangements were out 
of date. There was an air, not actually of 
neglect — for it was weeded, and the walks 
were trim and gravelled — but of careless- 
ness and rusticity, not unpleasant, in the 
place. Trees were allowed to straggle and 
spread, and rise aloft in air, just as they 
pleased. Tall roses climbed the walls about 
the door, and clustered in nodding masses, 
overhead ; and no end of pretty annuals and 
other flpwers, quite out of fashion, crowded 
the dishevelled currant-bushes, and the for- 
est of raspberries. Here and there were 
very tall myrtles, and the quince, and obso- 
lete meddlers, were discoverable among the 
other fruit-trees. The summits of the walls 
were in some places crowned, to the scandal 
of all decent gardening, with ivy, and a 
carve'd stone shaft in the centre of each gar- 
• den supported a sun-dial as old as the Hall 
itself. 

There are fancies, as well as likings and 
lovings. Where there is a real worship, how- 
ever cautiously masked — and Mr. Long- 
cluse’s was by no means so — it is never a 
mystery to a clever girl. And such adora- 
tion, although it })0 not at all reciprocated, 
is sometimes hard to part with. 

There is something of the nature of com- 
passion, with a little gratitude perhaps, 
mingling in the pang which a gentle lady 
feels at having to discharge for ever an hon- 
est love and a true servant, and send him 
away to solitary suffering for her sake. 
Some little pang of reproach of this sensi- 
tive kind had, perhaps, armed her against 
her brother’s sudden sentence of exclusion 
pronounced against Mr. Longcluse. 

The evening sunlight travelled over the 
ivy on the discolored wall, and glittered on 
the leaves of the tall fruit-trees, in whose 
thick foliage the birds were singing their 
vespers. Walking down the broad walk 


toward the garden-door, she felt the sadden- 
ing influence of the hour returning ; and as 
she reached the door, over-clustered with 
roses, it opened, and Mr. Longcluse stood in 
the shadow before her. 

Miss Arden, thus surprised in the midst 
of thoughts which at that moment happened 
to be employed about him, showed for a sec- 
ond, as she suddenly stopped, something in 
her beautiful face almost amounting to em- 
barrassment. 

“I was called away so suddenly to see 
Sir Reginald, that I went without saying 
good-by ; so I ran up to the drawing-room, 
and the servant told me I should probably 
find you here ; and, really without reflecting 
— I act, I ’m afraid, so much from impulse 
that I might appear very impertinent — I 
ventured to follow. What a beautiful even- 
ing ! How charming the light ! You, who 
are such an artist, and understand the poetry 
of color so, must admire this cloister-like 
garden, so beautifully illuminated.” 

Was Mr. Longcluse also a very little em- 
barrassed as he descanted thus on light and 
color ? ^ 

“ It is a very old garden, and does very 
little credit, I’m afraid, to our care; but 
I greatly prefer it to our formal gardens and 
all their finery, in Yorkshire.” 

She moved her hand as if she expected 
Mr. Longcluse to take it and his leave, for 
it was high time her visitor should order his 
wings and be off to the west, in which quar- 
ter, as we know, lay Mr. Longcluse’s habi- 
tation. 

He had stepped in, however, and the door 
closed softly before the light evening breeze 
that swung it gently. She was standing 
under the wild canopy of roses, and he under 
the sterner arch of grooved and fluted stone 
that overhung the doorway. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

WINGED WORDS. 

“ I WAS afraid 1 had vexed your brother 
somehow,” said Mr. Longcluse — “ I thought 
he seemed to meet me a little formally. I 
should be so sorry if I had annoyed him by 
any accident ! ” 

He paused, and Miss Arden said, half 
laughing: 

“Oh, don’t you know, Mr. Longcluse, 
that people are out of spirits sometimes, and 
now and then a little offended with all the 
world? It is nothing, of course.” 

“What a fib I” whispered conscience in 
the young lady’s pretty ear, while she smiled 
and blushed. 

Again she raised her hand a little, ex- 
pecting Mr. Longcluse’s farewell. 

But she looked a great deal too beautiful 
for a farewell. Mr. Longcluse could not 
deny himself a minute more, and he said: 


68 


CHECKMATE. 



“It is a year, Miss Arden, since I first 
saw yon.’' 

“ is it really? I dare say.” 

“Yes, at Lady May Penrose’s. Yes, I 
remember it distinctly — so distinctly that 
I shall never forojet any circumstance con- 
nected with it. It is exactly a year and 
four days. You smile, Miss Arden, because 
for you the event can have had no interest; 
for me it is different — how different I will 
not say.” 

Miss Arden colored and then grew pale. 
She was very much embarrassed. She was 
about to say a word to end the interview, 
and go. 

Perhaps Mr. Longcluse was, as he said, 
impulsive — too precipitate and impetuous. 
He raised his hand entreatingly. 

“Oh, Miss Arden, pray, only a word ! — I 
must speak it. Ever since then — ever since 
that hour — I have been the slave of a single 
thought ; I have worshipped before one beau- 
tiful image, with an impious adoration, for 
there is nothing — no sacrifice, no crime — 
.« I would shrink from for your sake. You 
can make of me what you will ; all I possess, 
all my future, every thought, and feeling, 
and dream — all are yours. No, no; don’t 
interrupt the few half-desperate words I 
have to speak, they may move you to pity. 
Never before, in a life of terrible vicissitude, 
of much suffering, of many dangers, have I 
seen the human being who could move me 
as you have done. 1 did not believe my 
seared heart capable of passion. And 1 


stand now aghast at what I have spoken. 
I stand at the brink of a worse death, by the 
word that trembles on your lips, tban the 
cannon’s mouth could give me. I see I 
have spoken rashly — I see it in your face — 
oh, Heaven ! I see what you would say.” 

Ilis hands were clasped in desperate sup- 
plication, as he continued ; and the fitful 
breeze shook the roses above them, and the 
fading leaves fell softly in a sho-wer about 
his feet. 

“No, don’t speak, your silence is sacred. 
I shan’t misinterpret — I conjure you, don’t 
answer ! Forget that I have spoken. Oh ! 
let it, in mercy, be all forgotten, and let us 
meet again as if there never had been this 
moment of madness, and in pity — as you 
look for mercy — forget it and forgive it ! ” 

He waited for no answer 5 he was gone: 
the door closed as it was before. Another 
breath of wind ruffled the roses, and a few 
more sere leaves fell where he had just been 
standing. 

She drew a long breath, dike on§ awaking 
from a vision. She was tremblifig slightly. 
Never before had she seen such agony in a 
human face ! All had happened so suddenly. 
It was an effort to believe it real. 

It seemed as if she could see nothing 
while he spoke, but that intense, pale face. 
She heard nothing but his deep and thrilling 
words. Now it seemed as if flowers, and 
trees, and -wall, and roses, all emerged sud- 
denly again from mist, and as if all the birds 
had resumed their singing after a silence. 


CHECKMATE. 


69 


“Forget it — forgive it! Let it, as you 
look for mercy, be all forgotten. Let us 
meet again, as if it never was.’^ This 
strange petition still rang in the ears of the 
astonished girl. 

She w^as still too much flurried by the 
shock of this wild and sudden outbreak of 
passion, and appeal to mercy, quite to see 
her true course in the odd combination that 
had arisen. 

She was a little angry, and a little flat- 
tered. There was a confusion of resentment 
and compassion. 

What business had this Mr. Longcluse to 
treat her to those heroics? What right had 
he to presume that he would be listened to? 
How dared he ask her to treat all that had 
happened as if it had never been ? How ' 
d^iired he seek to found on this unwarranted 
liberty relations of mystery between them? 
How dared he fancy that she would consent 
to play at this game of deception with him ? 

Mingled with these angry thoughts, how- 
ever, were the recollections of his homage, 
his tone of melancholy deference, ever since 
she had known him, and his admiration. 

Underlying all his trifling talk, there had 
always been toward her a respect which 
flattered her, which could not have been ex- 
ceeded had she been an empress in her own 
light. No, if he had said more than he had 
any right to suppose would be listened to, 
the extravagance was due to no want of re- 
spectfor her, but to the vehemence of passion. 
He was driving now into town at a great 
pace. His cogitations were still more pet- 
turbed. Had he, by one frantic precipita- 
tion, murdered his best hopes? 

One consolation at least he had. Being a 
man, not without reason, prone to suspicion, 
he had a deep conviction that, for some 
reason, Richard Arden was opposed to his 
suit, and had already begun to act upon 
Miss Arden’s mind to his prejudice. His 
best chance, then, he still thought, was to 
anticipate that danger by a declaration. 

If that declaration could only be forgiven, 
and the little scene at old Mortlake garden- 
door sponged out, might not his chances 
stand better far than before ? Would not 
the past, though never spoken of, give mean- 
ing, fire, and melancholy to things else in- 
significant, and keep him always before her, 
and her alone, be his demeanor and lan- 
guage ever so reserved and cold, as an im- 
passioned lover ? Did not his knowledge of 
human nature assure him that these rela- 
tions of mystery would, more than any 
other, favor his fortunes ? 

“ That she should consign what has passed, 
in a few impetuous moments, to oblivion 
and silence, is no unreasonable prayer, and 
one as easy to grant as to will it. She will 
think it over, and for my part, I will meet 
her as if nothing had ever happene<l to 
change our trifling but friendly relations. 
I wish I knew what Richard Arden is about. 
I soon shall. Yes, 1 sliall — I soon shall.” 


An opportunity seemed to offer sooner 
even than he had hoped ; for as he drove 
toward St. James’s Street, passing one of 
Richard Arden’s clubs, he saw that young 
gentleman ascending the steps with Lord 
Wynderbroke. * 

Longcluse stopped his brougham, jumped 
out, and overtook Richard Arden in the 
hall, where he stood, taking his letters from 
the hall-porter. 

“How d’ye do, again? I shan’t detain 
you a minute. I have had a long talk with 
your father about business,” said Longcluse, 
seizing the topic most likely to secure a few 
minutes, and speaking very low. “ You can 
bring me into a room here, and I ’ll tell you 
all that is necessary in two minutes.” 

“ Certainly,” said Ricliard, yielding to his 
curiosity. “ I have only two or three min- 
utes. I dine here with a friend, who is at 
this moment ordering dinner; so, you see, I 
am rather hurried.” 

He opened a door, and looking in said : 

“ Yes, we shall be quite to ouftelves 
here.” 

Longcluse shut the door. There was no ' 
one to overhear them. 

Richard Arden sat down on a sofa, and 
Mr. Longcluse threw himself into a chair. 

“ And what did he say ? ” asked Richard. 

“They want to raise his interest on the 
Yorkshire estate, and he says you won’t 
help him ; but that, of course, is your affair, 
and I declined, point-blank, to interfere in 
it. And before I go further, it strikes me, 
as it did to-day at Mortlake, that your man- 
ner to me has undergone a slight change.” 

“Has it? I did not mean it, I assure 
you,” said Richard Arden, with a little 
laugh. 

“ Oh ! yes, Arden, it has, and you must 
knpw it, and — pardon me — you must in- 
tend it also ; and now I want to know what 
I have done, or how I have hurt you, or 
who has been telling lies of me? ” 

“ Nothing' of all these, that I know of,” 
said Richard, with a cold little laugh. 

“Well, of course, if you prefer it, you 
may decline an explanation. I must, how- 
ever, remind you, because it concerns my 
happiness, and possibly other interests dearer 
to me than ’my life, too nearly to be trifled « 
with, that you heard all I said respecting 
your sister with the friendliest approbation 
and encouragement. You knew as much 
and as little about me then as you do now'. 

I am not conscious of having said or done 
anything to warrant the slightest change in 
your feelings or opinion ; and in your man- 
ner there is a change, and a very decided 
change, and I tell you frankly I can’t un- 
derstand it.” 

Thus directly challenged, Richard Arden 
looked at him hard for a moment. He was 
balancing in his mind whether he should 
evade or accept the crisis. He preferred 
the latter. 

“ Well, I can only say I did not intend to 


70 


CHECKMATE. 


convey anything by mj manner', but, as 
you know, when there is anything in one’s 
mind it is not always easy to prevent its 
affecting, as you say, one’s manner. I am 
not sorry you have asked me, because I 
* spoke without reflection the other day. No 
one should answer, I really think, for any 
one else, in ever so small a matter, in this 
world.” 

“But you didn’t — you spoke only for 
yourself. You simply promised me your 
friendship, kind offices — you said, in fact, 
all I could have hoped for.” 

“ Yes, perhaps — yes, I may — I suppose 
I did. But don’t yyu see, dear Longcluse, 
things may come to mind, on thinking over.” 

** What things?” demanded Longcluse, 
quickly, with a sudden energy that called a 
flush to his temples; and fire gleamed for a 
moment from his deep-set, gloomy eyes. 

“What things? Why, young ladies are 
not always the most intelligible problems on 
earth. I think you ought to know that; and 
really I do think, in such matters, it is far 
better that they should be left to themselves 
as much as possible ; and I think, besides, 
that there are some difficulties that did not 
strike us. I mean, that I now see that there 
really are great difficulties — insuperable 
difficulties.” 

“ Can you define them? ” said Longcluse, 
coldly. 

“ 1 don’t want to vex you, Longcluse, 
and I don’t want to quarrel.” 

“ That’s extremely kind of you.” 

“ I don’t know whether you are serious, 
but it is quite true. I don’t wish any un- 
pleasantness between us. I don’t think I 
need say more than that, having thought it 
over : 1 don’t see how it could ever be.” 

“ AVill you give me your reasons? ” 

“ I really don’t see that I can add any- 
thing in particular to what I have said.” 

“ I think, Mr. Arden, considering all that 
has passed between us on this subject, that 
you are hound to let me know your reasons 
for so marked a chanjje of opinion.” 

“ I can’t agree with you, Mr. Longcluse. 
I don’t see in the least why I need tell you 
my particular reasons for the opinion I have 
expressed. My sister can act for herself, 

* and I certainly shall not account to you for 
my reasons or opinions in the matter.” 

Mr. Longcluse’s pale face grew whiter, 
and his brows knit, as he fixed a momentary 
stare on the young man ; but he mastered 
his anger, and said in a cold tone: 

“We disagree totally upon that point, 
and I rather think the time will come when 
you must explain.” 

“ I have no more to say upon the subject, 
sir, except this,” said Arden, very tartly, 
“that it is certain your hopes can never 
lead to anything, and that I object to your 
continuing your visits to Mortlake.” 

“Why, the house does not belong to you 
— it belongs to Sir Reginald Arden, who 
objects to your visits and receives mine. 


Your ideas seem a little confused,” and he 
laughed gently and coldly. 

“ Very much the reverse, sir. I object 
to my sister being exposed to the least 
chance of annoyance from your visits. I 
protest against it, and you will be so good 
as to understand that I distinctly forbid 
them.” 

“The young lady’s father, I presume, 
will hardly ask your adyice in the matter, 
and I certainly shall not ask your leave. I 
shall call when 1 please, so long as I am 
received at Mortlake, and shall direct my 
own conduct without troubling you for 
counsel in my affairs.” Mr. Longcluse 
laughed again, icily. 

“And so shall I mine,” said Arden, 
sharply. 

“ You have no right to treat any one so,” 
said Longcluse, angrily; “as if one had 
broken his honor, or committed a crime.” 

“ A crime ! ” repeated Richard Arden. 
“ Oh ! That, indeed, would pretty well end 
all relations.” 

“ Yes, as, perhaps, you shall find,” an- 
swered Longcluse, with sudden and oracular 
ferocity. 

Each gentleman had gone a little farther 
than he had at first intended. 

Richard Arden had a proud and fierce 
temper when it was roused. He was near 
saying what would have amounted to insult. 
It was a chance opening of the door that pre- 
vented it. Both gentlemen had stood up. 

“ Please, sir, have you done with the' 
room, sir ? ” asked the man. 

“ Yes,” said Longcluse, and laughed again 
as he turned on his heel. 

“ Because three gentlemen want the room, 
if it ’s not engaged, sir. And Lord Wyn- 
derbroke is wanting for you, please, Mr. 
Arden.” 

So with a little toss of his head, wltich he 
held unusually high, and a flushed and 
“glooming” countenance, Richard Arden 
matched a little swaggeringly forth to his 
dinner tete-d-iUe with Lord Wynderbroke. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

STORIES ABOUT MR. LONGCLUSE. 

The irritation of this unpleasant inter- 
view soon subsided, bui Mr. Longcluse’s 
anxiety rather increased. 

Next ’day, early in the afternoon, he drove 
to Lady May’s, and she received him just as 
usual. He learned from her, Avithout ap- 
pearing to seek the information, that Alice 
Arden was still at Mortlake. 

His visit Avas one of but two or three min- 
utes. He jumped into a hansom and drove 
out to Mortlake. He knocked. Man of the 
Avorld as he was, his heart beat faster. 

“ Is Miss Arden at home?” 

“ No, sir.” 


CHECKMATE. 


71 



“ Not at home ? ” 

“ Miss Arden is gone out, sir.” 

“ Oh ! perhaps in the garden? ” 

“ No, sir ; she has gone out, and won’t be 
back for some time.” 

The man spoke with the promptitude and 
decision of a servant instructed to deny his 
mistress to the visitor. 

He had not a card; he would call again 
another day. 

He heard the piano faintly and, he thought, 
Alice’s voice also ; and certainly saw Vivian 
Darnley in the drawing-room window, as his 
cab turned away from the door.- With a 
swelling heart he drove into town. The 
portcullis, then, had fallen ; access was de- 
nied him ; and he should see her no more ! 

Good Heaven 1 what bad he done? He 
walked distractedly, for a while, up and 
down his study. Should he employ Lady 
May’s intervention, and tell her the v^ihole 
story ? Good-natured Lady May ! > Perhaps 
she would undertake his cause, and plead 
for his re-admission. But was even that so 
certain ? How could he tell what view she 
might take of the matter? And were she 
to intercede for him ever so vehemently, how 
could he tell that she had any chance of pre- 
vailing? 

No; on the whole it was better to be his 
own advocate. He would sit down then and 
there, and write to the olFended or alarmed 
lady, and lay his piteous case before her in 
his own words, and rely on her compassion, 
without an intervenient. 

How many letters he began, how many he 
even finished, and rejected, I need nob tire 
you by telling. Some were composed in the 
first, others in the third, person. Not one 
satisfied him. Hefe was the man of a mil- 
lion and more, who would dash off a note to 
his stock-broker, to buy or sell a hundred 
thousand pounds’ worth of stock — who 
would draft a resolution of the bank of which 
he was the chairman, directing an operation 
which would make men open their eyes, 
without the tremor of a nerve or the hesita- 
tion of a moment — unmanned, helpless, dis- 
tracted in the endeavor to write a note to a 
young and inexperienced girl ! 

0 beautiful sex ! what a triumph is here ! 
0 Love ! what fools will you not make of us 
poor masculine wiseacres! Hid you not 
bring the corpulent Gibbon to his knees, 
from which he could not rise ; and make the 
awful Cardinal Richelieu dance in doublet, 
trunk-hose, and rosettes, in the chamber of 
a cruel queen ? 

The letter he dispatched was in these 
terms. I dare say he had torn better ones 
to pieces ; — 

“Dkar Miss Arden: — I had hoped that my profound 
contrition might have atoned for a momentary indiscre- 
tion — the declaration, though in terms the most respect- 
ful, of feelings which I had not self-command sufficient 
to suppress, and which had for nearly a year remained 
concealed in my own breast. I am sure, Miss Arden, that 
you are incapable of a gratuitous cruelty. Have I not 
sworn that one word to recall the remembrance of that, 


to me, all but fatal madness, shall never escape my lips 
in your presence ? May I not entreat that you will for- 
get it, that you will forbear to pass upon me the agoniz- 
ing sentence of exclusion? You shall never again have 
i to complain of my uttering one word that the merest ac- 
I quaintance, who is permitted the happiness of conversing 
j with you, might not employ. You shall never regret 
your forbearance. I shall never cease to bless you for it ; 
and whatever decision you arrive at, it shall be respected 
by me as sacred law. 1 shall never cease to reverence and 
bless the hand that spares or — afflicts me. May I be 
permitted this one melancholy hope, may I be allowed 
to interpret your omitting to answer this miserable letter 
as a concession of its prayer? Unless forbidden, I will 
endeavor to construe your silence as oblivion. 

“ I have the honor to I'einain, dear Miss Arden, with deep 
compunction and respect, but not altogether without hope 
in your mercy, 

“Yours the most unhappy and distracted man in Eng- 
land. 

“ Walter Longcluse.” 

Mr. LongcluSe sealed this letter in its en- 
velope, and addressed it. He would have 
liked to send it that moment, by his servant, 
but an odd shyness prevented. He did not 
wish his servants to conjecture and put their 
heads together over it ; he could not endure 
the idea ; so with his own hand he dropped 
it in the post. 

Somewhat in the style of the old novel 
was this composition of Mr. Longcluse’s — a 
little theatrical, and, one would have fancied, 
even affected ; yet never was man more des- 
perately sincere. 

Night came, and brought no reply. Was 
no news good news, or would the morning 
bring, perhaps from Richard Arden, a with- 
ering answer ? 

Morning came, and no answer ; what was 
he to conjecture ? 

That day, in Grosvenor Square, he passed 
Richard xlrden. 

Richard Arden looked steadily and sternly 
a little to his right, and cut Mr. Longcluse. 

It was a marked and decided cut. Ilis 
ears tingled as if he had received a slap in 
the face. So things had assumed a very de- 
cided attitude indeed ! Longcluse felt very 
oddly enraged, at first ; then anxious. 

It was insulting that Richard Arden 
should have taken the initiative in dissolv- 
ing relations. But had he not been himself 
studiously impertinent to Arden, in that 
brief colloquy of yesterday ? He ought to 
have been prepared for this. Without ex- 
planation, and the shaking of hands, it was 
impossible that relations of amity should 
have been resumed between them. But 
Longcluse had been entirely alisorbed by a 
threatened alienation that affected him much’ 
more nearly. 

There was a thesis for conjecture in the 
situation, which made him still more anxious. 
A very little time would probably clear all 

^P- 

He was walking homeward, saying to 
himself as he went, “ No, I shall find no 
answer; I should be a fool to fancy any- 
thing else ; ” and yet walking all the more 
quickly, as he approached his house, in the 
hope of the very letter which he affected, to 
himself, to have quite rejected as an impossi- 
bility. 


72 


CHECKMATE. 


Some letters had come, but none from 
Mortlake. His letter to Alice was still un- 
answered. He was now in the agony of sus- 
pense and distraction. 

The same evening Richard Arden was 
talking about him, as he leaned with his 
elbow on the mantel-piece, at Mortlake. He 
and Alice were alone in the drawing-room, 
awaiting the arrival of the little dinner 
party. 

This, as you know, was to include Lord 
Wynderbroke, before whose advances, in 
Richard Arden's vision, Mr. Longcluse had 
waned, and even become an embarrassment 
and a nuisance. 

“ It is easier to cut him than to explain," 
thought Richard Arden. “ It bares one so 
inexpressibly, giving reasons for what one 
does, and I 'm so glad he has saved me the 
trouble by his vulgar impertinence." 

They had talked for some time, Alice 
chiefly a listener. How was she afiected 
toward Mr. Longcluse? He was agreeable ; 
he flattered her ; he was passionately in love 
with her. 

All but this latter condition she liked very 
well ; but this was embarrassing, and quite 
impracticable. Who knows what that tiny 
spark we term a fancy, a whim, a 'penchant, 
might have grown to, had it not been blown 
away by this untimely guest? But, for my 
part, I don't think it ever would have grown 
to a matter of the heart. There was some- 
thing in the way. A fancy is one thing, 
and passion quite another. Pique is a com- 
mon state of mind, and comes and goes, and 
comes again, in many a courtship. But a 
liking that has once entered the heart cannot 
be torn out in a hasty moment, and takes a 
long time, and many a struggle, to kill. 

She was a little sorry, just then, to lose 
him so inevitably. Perhaps his letter, to 
which he had trusted to move her, had ren- 
dered the return of old relations impossible. 
In this letter she felt herself the owner of a 
secret — a secret which she could not keep 
without a sort of understanding growing up 
between them — Avhich therefore she had no 
idea of keeping. 

She was resolved to tell it. The letter she 
had locked, in marked isolation, as if no 
property of hers, but simply a document that 
was in her keeping, in the pretty ormolu 
casket that stood on the drawing-room chim- 
ney-piece. 

She had intended showing it, and telling 
' the story of the scene in the garden, to 
Richard. But he was speaking with a mys- 
terious asperity of Mr. Longcluse, which 
made her hesitate. A very little thing, it 
seemed to her, might suffice to make a very 
violent quarrel out of a coldness. 

Instinctively, therefore, she refrained, and 
listened to Richard whilst, wdth his arm 
touching the casket on the chimney-piece, 
he descanted on the vrriter of the unknown 
letter. 

She experienced an odd feeling of insecu- 


rity as, in the course of his talk, his fingers 
began to trifle with the pretty figures that 
stood out in relief upon the casket ; for she 
knew that the ordeal of the pistol, discoun- 
tenanced in England, was still in force ou 
the Continent, and Mr, Longcluse's ideas 
were all continental ; and how near were 
those fingers to the letter which might suffice 
to explode the dangerous element that had 
already accumulated ! 

“ He has talked of us to his low compan- 
ions ; he chooses to associate with usurers 
and W'Orse people ; and he has been speak- 
ing of us in the most insolent terms." 

“ Really ! " said Alice. Her large eyes 
looked larger as they fixed on him. 

“Yes, and I'll tell you how I heard it. 
You must know, dear Alice, that I happened 
to want a little money ; and when one does, 
the usual course is to borrow it. So I paid 
a visit to my harpy — and a harpy in need 
is a harpy indeed. Being hard up, he 
fleeced me ; and the gentleman, I suppose 
thinking he might be familiar, told me he 
was on confidential terms with Mr. Long- 
cluse, and wished me a great deal of joy. 

‘ Of Avhat ? ' I ventured to ask, for he had 
just hit me rather hard. ‘Of your chance,' 
or as he called it, chanshe, he said, vrith a 
delightfully arch leer. I thought he meant I 
had backed the right horse for the Derby, 
but it turned out he meant our chance of 
inducing Mr. Longcluse to make up his mind 
to marry you. I w’^as very near knocking 
him down ; but a man who has one's bill for 
three hundred pounds must be respected. 
So I merely ventured to ask on whose au- 
thority he congratulated me, when it ap- 
peared it was on Mr. Longcluse's own, who, 
it seems, had said a great deal more, equally 
intolerable. In plain, coarse terms, he says 
that, being poor, we have conspired with 
you to secure him, Mr. Longcluse, for your 
husband. As to the fact of his having actu- 
ally conveyed that, and to more people than 
one, there is and can be no doubt whatever. 

I can imagine, considering all things, noth- 
ing more vulgar, audacious, and cowardly." 

A blush of anger glowed in Alice's face. 
Richard Arden liked the proud fire that 
gleamed from her dark gray eyes. It satis- 
fied him that his words were not lost. 

“ I lighted on a man who knew more about 
him than 1 had learned before," resumed 
Richard Arden. “He was suspected at 
Berlin of having been engaged in a conspir- 
acy to pigeon Dacre and Wilmot, who were 
travelling. He did not appear, but he is said ' 
to h^ave supplied the money, and had a lion's 
share of the spoil. There is no good in re- 
peating these things generally, you know, 
because they are so hard to prove: and a 
fellow like that is dangerous. They say h,e 
is very litigious." 

“ Upon my word, if your information is at 
all to be relied on, it is plain we have made 
a great mistake. It is a disappointing world, 
but I could not have fancied him doing any- 


CHECKMATE. 


73 


thing so low ; and I must say for him that he 
was gentlemanlike and quiet, and very un- 
like the person he appears to be. I think I 
never heard of anything so outrageous ! 
Vivian Darnley told me that he was a great 
duellist, and thought to be a very quarrel- 
some, dangerous companion, abroad. But 
he had only heard this, and what you tell me 
is so much worse, so mean, so utterly intol- 
erable ! 

“Oh! There's worse than that," said 
Richard, with a faint sinister smile. 

“ Wliat ? " said she, returning it with an 
almost frightened gaze. 

“ There was a very beautiful girl at the 
opera in Vienna ; her name was Piccardi, a 
daughter of a good old Roman family. You 
can’t imagine how admired she was ! And 
she was thought to be on the point of marry- 
ing Count Baddenoff; Mr. Longcluse, it 
seems, chose to be in love with her ; he was 
not then anything like so rich as he became 
afterwards — and this poor girl was killed." 

“ Good heavens I Richard ; what can you 
mean ? " 

“I mean that she was assassinated, and 
that from that day Mr. Longcluse was never 
received in society in Vienna, and had to 
leave it." 

“ You ought to tell May Penrose," said 
she, after a silence of dismay. 

“ Not for the world," said Richard ; “ she 
talks enough for six — and where’s the good? 
She’ll only,take up the cudgels for him, and 
we shall be in the centre of a pretty row." 

“Well, if you think it best ’’ she 

began. 

“ Certainly," said he. And a silence fol- 
lowed. 

“ Here is a carriage at the door," said 
Richard Arden. “Let us dismiss Longcluse, 
and look a little more like ourselves." 

That evening there came letters as usual 
to Mr. Longcluse, and among others a note 
from Lady May Penrose, reminding him of 
her little garden-party at Richmond next 
day. 

“By Jove!" *he exclaimed, starting up 
and reading the cards on his chimney, “ I 
thought it was the day after. It was very 
good-natured, poor old thing, her reminding 
me. I sh*l see Alice Arden there. Notone 
line does she vouchsafe. But is not she 
right? 1 think the more highly of her for 
not writing. I don’t think she ought to 
write. Oh, Heaven grant she may meet me 
as usual. Does she mean it? If she did 
not, would she not have got her brother to 
write, or have written herself a cold line, to 
end our acquaintance? ’’ 

So he tried to comfort himself, and to keep 
alive his dying hope by these artificial stim- 
ulants. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE GARDEN-PARTY. 

Next morning Mr. Longcluse rose with a 
sense of something before him. 

“ So I shall see her to-day ! If she 's the 
girl I’ve thought her, she will meet me as 
usual. That frantic scene, in which I 
risked all on the turn of a die, will be for- 
gotten. Hasty words, or precipitate letters, 
are passed over every day ; the man who 
commits such follies, under a transitory in- 
sanity, is allowed the privilege qf recalling 
them. There were, no witnesses present to 
make forgiveness difficult. It all lies with 
her own good sense, and a heart proud but 
gentle. Let but those mad words be sponged 
out, and I am happy. Alice, if you forgive 
me, I forgive your brother, and take his 
name from where it is, and write it in my 
heart of hearts. Oh, beautiful Alice! will 
you belie your looks? Oh, clear, bright 
mind! will you be clouded and perverted? 
Oh, gentle heart! can you be merciless?" 

Mr. Longcluse made his simple morning 
toilet very carefully. A very plain man, 
extremely ugly some pronounce him ; yet 
his figure is good, his get-up unexceptionable, 
and altogether he is a most gentlemanlike 
man to look upon, and in his movements 
and attitudes, quite unstudied, there is an 
undefinable grace. His accent is a little 
foreign — the slightest thing in the world, 
and Lady May Penrose declares it is so very 
pretty. Then he is so agreeable, when he 
pleases ; and he is so very rich ! 

Some people wonder why he does §ot 
withdraw from all speculations, retire upon 
his enormous wealth, and with his elegant 
tastes, and the art of being magnificent 
without glare, even gorgeous without vul- 
garity — for has he not shown this refined 
talent in the service ofi others, who have 
taken him into council? — he could eclipse 
all the world in splendid elegance, and make 
his wiiy, force d’ argent, to the pinnacle of 
half the world’s ambition. Were those 
stories true that Richard Arden told his 
sister on the night before ? 

I don’t think Richard Arden stuck at 
trifles, where he had an object to gain, and 
I don’t believe a word of his story of Mr. 
Longcluse’s insulting talk. It was not his 
way to boast and vapor ; and he had a secret 
contempt for many of the Jewish and other 
agents whom he chose to employ. 

But undoubtedly Mr. Longcluse had the 
reputation among his discounting admirers 
of being a dangerous man to quarrel with ; 
and also it was true that he had fought three 
or four savage duels in the course of his con- 
tinental life. There were other stories, un- 
authentlcated, unpleasant. These were 
whispered with sneers by Mr. Longcluse’s 
enemies. But there’s a divinity doth hedge 
a King Croesus, and his character bore a 
charmed life, among the missiles that would 


74 


CHECKMATE. 


have laid that of many a punier roan in the 
dust. 

With an agitated heart, Mr. Longcluse 
approached the pretty little place known as 
hbaleigh Court, to which he had been invited. 
Through the quaint, old-hishioned gateway, 
under the embowering branches of tall trees, 
he drove up a short, broad avenue, clumped 
at each aide with old timber, to the open 
hall-door of the pretty Elizabethan house. 
Carriages of all sorts were discernible under 
the branches, assembled at the farther side, 
to the right of the hall-door, over the wide 
steps of which was spread a scarlet cloth. 
Croquet parties were already visible on the 
shorn grass, under boughs that spread high 
in the air, and cast a pleasant shadow on the 
sward. Groups were strolling among the 
fiower-beds — some walking in, some emerg- 
ing from the open door — and the scene pre- 
senting the usual variety of dress, and some- 
what listless to-ing and fro-ing. 

Did any one, of all the guests of Lady 
May, mask so profound an agitation, under 
the conventional smile, as that which beat at 
Walter Longcluse’s heart? 

Two or tliree people whom he knew, he 
met and talked to — some for a minute, 
others for a longer time — as he drew near 
the steps. Ilis eye all the time was busy in 
search after one pretty figure, the least 
glimpse of which he would have recognized 
with the thrill of a sure intuition, far or 
near. 

He would have liked to ask the friends he 
met whether the Ardens were here. But 
what would have been easy to him a week 
b(^ore, was now an effort for which he could 
not find courage. 

He entered the hall, quaint and lofty, ris- 
ing to the entire height of the house, with 
two galleries, one above the other, surround- 
ing it on three sides. Ancestors of the late 
Mr. Penrose, who#had left all this and a 
great deal more to his sorrowing relict, stood 
on the panelled walls at full length — some 
in ruffs and trunk-hose, others in perukes and 
cut-velvet, one with a b3,ton in his hand, and 
three with falcon on wrist — all stately and 
gentlemanlike, according to their several 
periods; with corresponding ladies, some 
stiff and pallid, Avho figured in the days of 
the virgin queen, and others in the grace- 
ful disliahiUe of Sir Peter Lely. This quaint 
oak hall was now resonant with the buzz 
and clack of modern gossip, prose, and flirta- 
tion, and a great deal crowded, notwithstand- 
ing its commodious proportions. Lady May 
was still receiving her company near the 
doorwaj'^ of the first drawing-room, and her 
kindly voice was audible from within as the 
visitor approached. 

xMr. Longcluse was very graciously re- 
ceived. 

“ I want yon so particularly, to introduce 
you to Lady llummington. She is such a 
charming person. She is so thoroughly up 
in German literature. She ’s a great deal 


too learned for me, but you and she will un- 
derstand one another so perfectly, and you 
will be quite charmed with her. Mr. Add- 
lings, did you happen to see Lady llum- 
mington, or have you any idea where she 's 
gone ? '' 

“I shall go and look for her, with pleas- 
ure. Is not she the tall lady with gray hair ? 
Shall I tell her you want to say a word to 
her ? 

“ You ’re very kind, but I’ll not mind, 
thank you very much. It is so provoking, 
Mr. Longcluse ! you would have Ipeen per- 
fectly charmed with her.” 

“ I shall be more fortunate by-and-by, per- 
haps,” said Mr. Longcluse. “ Are any of 
our friends from Mortlake here ? ” he added, 
looking a little fixedly in her eyes, for he 
was thinking whether Alice had betrayed 
his secret, and was trying to read an answer 
there. 

It was quite plain that good Lady May 
had heard nothing to lead her to the belief 
that he was no longer on his old terms with 
the Ardens, for she answered quite inno- 
cently and promptly: 

“Oh, yes, Alice is here, and her brother, 
lie went “out that way with some friends,” 
she said, indicating with a little nod a door 
which, from a second hall, opened on a ter- 
race. ^ “ I asked him -to show them the three 
fountains. You must see them also; they 
are in the Dutch garden ; they were put up 
in the reign »»f George the First.. IIow d’ ye 
do, Mrs. Frumply? IIow d’ye do. Miss 
Frumply ? ” 

“What a charming house!” exclaims 
Mrs. Frumply, “ and what a day ! We were 
saying, Arabella and I, as we drove out, that 
you must really have an influence with the 
clerk of the weather, ha, ha, ha ! did n’t we, 
Arabella? S») charming!” 

Lady May laughed affably, and said: 

“ Won’t you and your daughter go in and 
take some tea? Mr. (she was going to call 
on Longcluse, but he had glided away) — 
Oh, Mr. Darnley ! ” 

And the introduction was made, and 
Vivian Darnley with Mrs. Frumply on his 
arm, attended by her daughter Arabella, did 
as he was commanded, and got ^a for that 
simpering lady, and fruit and i^iples bis- 
cuits, and plum-cake, and was rewarded with 
the original joke about the clerk of the 
weather. 

Mr. Longcluse. in the mean time, had 
passed the door indicated by Lady iMay, and 
stood upon the short terrace that overlooked 
the pretty flower-garden cut out in grotesque 
patterns, so that looking down upon its 
masses of crimson, blue, and yellow, as he 
leaned on the balustrade, it showed beneath 
his eye like a wide deep-piled carpet, on the 
green ground of which were walking groups 
of people, the brilliant hues of the ladies’ 
dresses rivalling the splendor of the verbenas, 
and making altogether a very gay picture. 

The usual paucity of male attendance 


CHECKMATE. 


75 


made Mr. Longcluse’s task of observation 
easy. He ^yas looking for Richard Arden^s 
well-known figure among the groups, think- 
ing that probably Alice was not far off. 
But he was not there, nor was Alice ; and 
Walter Longcluse, gloomy and lonely in this 
gay crowd, descended the steps at the end of 
this terrace, and sauntered round again to 
the front of the house, now and then pass- 
ing some one he knew, with an exchange of 
a smile or a bow, and then lost again in the 
Vanity Fair of strange faces and voices. 

Now he is at the hall door — he mounts 
the steps. Suddenly, as he stands upon the 
level platform at top, he finds himself within 
three steps of Richard Arden. He looks on 
him as he might on the carved y)ilastej, at 
the side of the hall-door ; no one could have 
guessed, by his inflexible but unaffected 
glance, that he and Mr. Arden had ever 
been acquainted. The younger man showed 
something in his countenance, a sudden 
Ijauteur, a little elevation of the chin, a cer- 
tain sternness, more melo-dramatic, though 
less effective, than the simple blank of Mr. 
Longcluse’s glance. 

That gentleman looked about coolly. He 
was in search of Miss Arden, but he did not 
see her. He entered the hall again, and 
Richard Arden a little awkwardly resumed 
his conversation, which had suddenly sul)- 
sided into silence on Longcluse’s appearance. 

By this time Lady May was more at ease, 
having received all her company tlnit were 
reasonably punctual, and in th^ hail Long- 
cluse now encountered her. 

“ Have you seen Mr. Arden ? ” she inquired 
of him. 

“ Yes, he ’s at the door, at the steps/' 

“ Would you mind telling him kindly that 
I want to say a word to him ? ” 

“ Certainly, most happy," said Longcluse, 
without any distinct plan as to how heVas 
to execute her awkward commission. 

“Thank you very much. But, oh dear! 
here is Lady Hummington, and she wishes 
so much to know you ; I '11 send some one 
else. I must introduce you ; come with me 
— Lady Hummington, I want to ititroduce 
my friend, Mr. Longcluse." So Mr. Long- 
cluse was presented to Lady Hummington, 
who was very lean, and a “ blue," and most 
fatiguingly well up in archaeology, and all 
new books on dry and difficult subjects. So 
that Mr. Longcluse felt that he was, in Joe 
Willett's phrase, “tackled" by a giant, and 
was driven to hideous exertions of attention 
and memory to hold his own. When Lady 
Hummington, to whom it was plain kind 
Lady May, with an unconscious cruelty, had 
been describing Mr. Longcluse's accomplish- 
ments and acquirements, had taken some tea 
and other refection, and when Mr. Long- 
cluse’s kindness had her wants supplied ; 
and she, like Scott's “old man" in the 
“Lay of the Last Minstrel," “was grati- 
fied," she proposed visiting the music-room, 
where she had heard a clever organist play, | 


on an harmonium, three distinct tunes at 
the same time, which being composed on 
certain principles, that she explained with 
much animation and precision, harmonized 
very prettily. 

So this clever wonmn directed, and Mr. 
Longcluse led, the way to the music-room. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

HE SEES HER. 

Mr. Longcluse's attention was beginning 
to wander a little, and his eyes were now 
busy in search of some one whom he had 
not found ; and knowing that the duration 
of people’s stay at a garden-party is always 
uncertain, and that some of those gayly- 
plumed bi^ds who make the flutter, and 
chirping, aiji^ brilliancy of the scene, hardly 
alight before they take wing again, he began 
to fear that Alice Arden had gone. 

“Just like my luck! "he thought, bitterly; 
“ and if she is gone, when shall I have an 
opportunity of seeing her again ? " • ' 

Lady Hummirigton’s well-informed con- 
versation had been, unheeded, accompanying 
the ruminations and distractions of this “pass- 
ionate {)ilgrim; " and as they approached 
the door of the music-room, the little crush 
there brought the learned lady's lips so near 
to his ear, that with a little start he heard 
the words — 

“ All strictly arithmetical, you know, and 
adjusted by the relative frequency of vibra- 
tions. Thak theory, I am sure, you approve, 
Mr. Longcluse." 

To which the distracted lover made an- 
wer, “I quite agree with .you. Lady Hum- 
mington." 

The music-room at Raleigh Court is an 
apartment of no great size, and therefore 
when, with Lady Hummington on his arm, 
he entered, it wjw at no great distance that 
he saw Miss Arden standing near the win- 
dow, and talking with an elderly gentleman, 
whose appearance he did not know, but who 
seemed to be extremely interested in her 
conversation. 

She saw him, he had not a doubt, for she 
turned a little quickly, and looked ever so 
little more directly out at the window, and 
a very slight tinge flushed her cheek. 

It was quite plain, he thought, and a 
dreadful pang stole through his breas^, that 
she did not choose to see him — quite plain 
that she did see him — and he thought, from 
a subtle scrutiny of her beautiful features, 
quite plain also that it gave her pain to 
meet w'ithout acknowledging him. 

Lady Hummington was conversing with 
volubility ; but the air felt icy, and there 
was a strange trembling at his heart, and 
this, in many respects, hard man of the 
world felt that the tears were on the point 
I of welling from his eyes. 


76 


CHECKMATE. 


The struggle was but for a few moments, 
and he seemed quite himself again. 

Lady Hummington wished to go to the 
end of the room where the piano was, and 
the harmonium on which the organist had 
performed his feat of the three tunes. That 
artist was taking his departure, having a 
musical assignation of some kind to keep. 
But to oblige Lady Hummington, who had 
heard of Thalberg’s doing something of the 
kind, lie sat down and played an elaborate 
piece of music on the piano with his thumbs 
only. 

This charming effort over, and applauded, 
the performer took his departure. And 
Lady Hummington said: 

“ I am told, Mr. Longcluse, that you are 
a very good musician,” 

“ A very indifferent performer. Lady Hum- 
mington.” 

“ Lady May Penrose tells a v^ry different 
tal e . 

“Lady May Penrose * is too kind to be 
critical,” said Longcluse; and, as he main- 
tained this dialogue, his eye was observing 
every movement of Alice Arden. She seemed, 
however, to have quite made up her mind to 
stand her ground. There was a strange in- 
terest, to him, even in being in the same 
room with her. Perhaps Miss Arden saw 
that Mr. Longcluse’s movements were de- 
pendent upon those of the lady whom he 
accompanied, and might have thought that, 
the musician having departed, their stay in 
that room would not be very long. 

“ I should be so glad to hear you sing. 


Mr. Longcluse,” pursued Lady Humming- 
ton. “ You have been in the East, I think ; 
have you any of the Hindostanee songs? 
There are some, I have read, that embody 
ideas from the Brahmin philosophy.” 

“Long-winded songs, I fancy,” said Mr. 
Longcluse, laughing ; “ it is a very volumi- 
nous philosophy; but the truth is, I've got 
a little cold, and I should not like to make 
a bad impression so early.” 

“ But surely there are some simple little 
things, without very much compass, that 
would not distress you. How pretty those 
old English songs are that they are collecting 
and publishing now ! I mean songs of 
Shakspeare’s time — Ben Jonson's, Beau- 
mont and Fletcher's, and Massinger's, jmu 
know. Some of them are so extremely 
pretty ! ” 

“ Oh, yes, I '11 sing you one of those with 
pleasure,” said he, with a strange alacrity, 
quite forgetting his cold, sitting down at the 
instrument, and striking two or three fierce 
chords. 

I am sure that most of my readers are 
acquainted with that pretty old English 
song, of the time of James the First, entitled, 
“ Once I Loved a Maiden Fair.” That was 
the song he chose. 

Never, perhaps; did he sing so well be- 
fore, with a fluctuation of pathos and scorn, 
tenderness and hatred, expressed with rea. 
dramatic fire, and with more power of voice 
than at moments of less excitement he pos- 
sessed. He sang it with real passion, and 
produced, exactly where he wished, a strange 



“at tuk further side of the gre.\t trunk.” 


CHECKMATE. 


77 


but un avowed sensation. He omitted one 
verse, and the song as he delivered it was 
thus; — 

“Once I loved a maiden fair, 

But she did deceive me: 

She witli Veiuis could compare, 

In my mind, believe me. 

She was young and among 
All our maids the sweetest : 

Now I say, Ah, well-a-day ! • 

Brightest hopes are fleetest. 

“ Maidens wavering and untrue 
Many a heart have broken ; 

Sweetest lips the world e’er knew 
Falsest words have spoken. 

Fare thee well, faithless girl, 

I ’ll nof sorrow for thee ; 1 

Once I held thee dear as pearl, 

Now I do abhor thee.” 

When he had finished the song, he said, 
coldly, but very distinctly, as he rose: 

“I like that song — there is a melancholy 
sychology in it. It is a song worthy of 
hakspeare himself.’’ 

Lady Hummington urged him with an 
encore, but he was proof against her en- 
treaties. And so, after a little, she took 
Mr. Longcluse’s arm ; and Alice felt re- 
lieved when the room was rid of them. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

ABOUT THE GROUNDS. 

Lady Hummington, well pleased at hav- 
ing found in Mr. Longcluse what she termed 
a kindred mimj, was warned by the hour 
that she must depart. She took her leave 
of Mr. Longcluse with regret, and made 
him promise to«cometo luncheon with her 
on the Thursday following. Mr. Longcluse 
called her carriage for her, and put in, 
besides herself, her maiden sister and two 
daughters, who all exhibited the family lean- 
ness, with noses more or less red and 
aquiline, and small black eyes, set rather 
close together. 

As he ascended the steps he was accosted 
by a damsel in distress. 

“ Mr. Longcluse, I’m so glad to see you ! 
You must do a very good-natured thing, 
said handsome Miss Maubray, smiling on 
him. “I came here with old Sir Arthur 
and Lady Tramway, and I ’ve lost them ; 
and I ’ve been bored to death by a Mr. B:ig- 
shot, and I ’va sent him to look for my 

f ocket-handkerchief in the tea-room ; and 
want ypu, as you hope for mercy, to show 
it now, and rescue me from my troubles.” 

“ I ’m too much honored. I ’m only too 
happy. Miss Maubray. I shall put Mr. Bag- 
shot to death, if you wish it, and Sir Arthur 
and Lady Tramway shall appear the mo- 
ment you command.” 

Mr. L(mgcluse was talking his nonsense 
with the high spirits which sometimes attend 
a painful excitement. 

“ I told them I should get to that tree if I 


were lost in the crowd, and that they would 
be sure to find me under it after six o’clock. 
Do take me there ; I am so afraid of Mr. 
Bagshot’s returning ! ” 

So, over the short grass that handsome 
girl walked, with Mr. Longcluse at her 
side. 

“ I ’ll sit at this side, thank you ; I don’t 
want to be seen by Mr. Bagshot.” 

So she sat down, placing herself at the 
farther side of the great trunk of the old 
chestnut-tree. 

Mr. Longcluse stood nearly opposite, but 
so placed as to command a view of the hall- 
door steps. He was still watching the 
groups that emerged, with as much interest 
as if his lifetdepended on the order of their 
to-ing and fro-ing. But, in spite of this, 
very soon Miss Maubray’s talk began to in- 
terest him. 

“Whom did Alice Arden come with?” 
asked Miss Maubray. “I should like to 
know ; because, if I should lose my people, 
I must find some one to take me home.” 

“ With her brother, I fancy.” 

“ Oh, yes, to be sure — I saw him here. I 
forgot. But Alice is very independent, just 
now, of his protection,” and she laughed. 

“ How do mean ? ” 

“Oh, Lord Wynderbroke, of course, takes 
care of her while she’s here. I saw them 
walking about together, so happy I I sup- 
pose it is all settled.” 

“ About Lord Wynderbroke?” suggested 
Longcluse, with a gentle carelessness, as if 
he did not care a farthing — as if a dreadful 
pain had not at that moment pierced his 
heart. 

“Yes, Lord Wynderbroke. Why, haven’t 
you heard of that?” 

“ Yes, I believe — I think so. I am sure I 
have heard something of it ; but one hears so 
many things, one forgets, and I don’t know 
him. AVhat kind of man is he?” 

“lie’s hard to describe; he’s not disa- 
greeable, and he ’s not dull ; he has a great 
deal to say for himself about pictures, and 
thov East, and the Crimea, and the opera, 
and all the people at all the Courts in Eu- 
rope, and he ought to be amusing; but I 
think he is the driest person I ever talked to. 
And he is really good-natured ; but I think 
him much more teasmg than the most ill- 
natured man alive, he ’s so insufferably 
punctual and precise.” 

“You know him very well, then?” said 
Longcluse, with an efibrt to contribute his 
share to the talk. ^ 

“ Pretty well,” said the young lady, with 
just a slight tinge flushing her haughty 
cheek. “ But no one who has been a week 
in the same house with him could fail to see 
all that.” 

Miss Maubray herself, I am told, had hopes 
of Lord Wynderbroke about a year before, 
and was not amiably disposed toward him 
now, and looked on the triumph of Alice a 
little sourly; although something like the 


78 


CHECKMATE. 


beginning of a real love had since stolen 
into her heart — not, perhaps, destined to be 
much more happy. 

“ Lord Wynderbroke — I don’t know him. 
Is that gentleman he whom I saw talking to 
Miss Arden in the music-room, I wonder? 
lie ’s not actually thin, and he is not at all 
stout ; he ’s a little above th® middle height, 
and he stoops just a little. lie appears past 
fifty, and his hair looks like an old-fashioned 
brown wig, brushed up into a sort of cone 
over his forehead. He seems a' little formal, 
and very polite and smiling, with a flower in 
his button-hole ; a blue coat ; and he has a 
pair of those little gold Paris glasses, and 
was looking out through the window with 
them.” 

“ Had he a high nose? ” 

“Yes, rather a thin, high nose, and his 
face is very brown.” 

“ Well, if he was all that, and had a brown 
face and a high nose, and was pretty near 
fifty-three, and very near Alice Arden, he 
was positively Lord Wynderbroke.” 

“ And has this been going on for some 
time, or is it a sudden thing? ” 

“ Both, I believe. It has been going on a 
long time, I believe, in old Sir Reginald’s 
head ; but it has come about, after all, rather 
suddenly ; and my guardian says — Mr. Da- 
vid Arden, you know — that he has written 
a proposal in a letter to Sir Reginald, and 
you see how happy the young lady looks. 
So I think we may assume that the course 
of true love, for once, runs smooth — don’t 
yon?” 

“ And I suppose there is no objection any- 
where ? ” said Longcluse, smiling. “ It is a 
pity he is not a little younger, perhaps.” 

“ I don’t hear any complaints ; let us rath- 
er rejoice he is not ten or twenty years older. 
I am sure it would not prevent his happi- 
ness, but it would heighten the ridicule. 
Are you one of Lady May Penrose’s party 
to the Derby to-morrow ? ” inquired the 
young lady. 

“ No ; I have n’t been asked.” 

“ Lord Wynderbroke is going.” 

“ Oh ! of course he is.” 

“ I don’t think Mr. David Arden likes it ; 
but, of course, it is no business of his, if 
other people are pleased. I wonder you did 
not hear all this from Richard Arden, you 
and he are so intimate.” 

So said the young lady, looking very in- 
nocent, But I think she suspected more 
than she said. 

“ No, I did not hear it,” he said, carelessly ; 
“ or, if I did, I forgot it. But do you blame 
the young lady ? ” 

“ Blame her ! not at all. Besides, I am 
not so sure that she knows.” * 

“ How can you think so ? ” 

“ Because I think she likes quite another 
person.” * 

“ Really. And who is he ? ” 

“ Can’t you guess? ” 

“ Upon my honor, I can’t.” 


There was something so earnest, and even 
vehement, in this sudden asseveration, that 
Miss Maubray looked for a moment in his 
face ; and seeing her curious expression, he 
said more quietly, “I assure you I don’t 
think I ever heard ; I ’in rather curious to 
know.” 

“ I mean Mr. Vivian Darnley.” 

• “Oh! Well, I’ve suspected that a long 
time. I told Richard Arden, one day — I 
forget how it came about — but he said no.” 

“Well, I say yes,” laughed the young 
lady, “ and we shall see who ’s right.” 

“ Oh ! Recollect I ’m only giving you his 
opinion. I rather leaned to yours, but he 
said there was positively nothing in it, and 
that Mr. Darnley is too poor to marry,” 

“ If Alice Arden resembles me,” said the 
young lady, “she thinks there are just two 
things to marry for — either love or ambi- 
tion.’*’ 

“ You place love first, I ’m glad to observe,” 
said Mr. Longcluse, with a smile. 

“ So I do, because it is most likely to pre- 
vail with a pig-headed girl ; but what I mean 
is this : that social pre-eminence — I mean 
rank, and not trumpery rank ; but such as, 
being accompanied with wealth and prece- 
dence, is also attended with power — is 
worth an immense sacrifice of all other ob- 
jects : my reason tells me, worth the sacrifice 
of love. But that is a sacrifice which impa- 
tient, impetuous people can’t always so 
easily make — which I dare say I could not 
make if I were tried ; but I don’t think I 
shall ever be fool enough to become so in- 
sane, for the state of a person in love is a 
state of simple idiotism. It is pitiable, I 
allow, but also contemptible ; but, judging 
by what I see, it appears t^ me a more irre- 
sistible delusion than ambition. But I don’t 
understand Alice well. I think if I knew a 
little more of her brother — certain qualities 
so run in families — I should be able to make 
a better guess. What do you think of him ? ” 

“lie’s very agreeable, isn’t he? and, 
for the rest, really, until men are tried as 
events only can try them, it is neither wise 
nor safe to pronounce.” 

“ Is he affectionate ? ” 

“ Ilis sister seems to worship him,” he 
answered ; “ but young ladies are so angelic, 
that where they like they resent nothing, 
and respect selfishness itself as a manly 
virtue.” 

“ But you know him intimately ; surely 
you must know something of him.” 

Under different circumstances, this auda- 
cious lady’s cross-examination would have 
amused Mr. Longcluse ; but in his present 
relations, and spirits, it was otherwise. 

“I should but mislead you if I were to 
answer more distinctly. I answer for no 
man, hardly for myself. Besides, I question 
your theory. I don’t think, except by acci- 
dent, that a brother’s character throws any 
light upon a sister’s ; and I hope — I think, I 
mean — that Miss Arden has qualities illimit- 


CHECKMATE. 


79 


ably superior to those of her brother. Are 
these your friends, Miss Maubray?'^ he con- 
tinued. 

“ So they are,’’ slie answered. “ I ’m so 
much obliged to you, Mr. Longcluse ! I 
think they are leaving.” 

Mr. Longcluse, having delivered her into 
the hands of her chaperon, took his leave, 
and walked into the broad alleys among the 
trees ; and in solitude under their shade, sat 
himself down by a pond, on which two swans 
were sailing majestically. 

Looking down upon the water with a 
allid frown, he struck the bank beneath 
im viciously with his heel, peeling off little 
bits of the sward, which dropped into the 
water. 

“ It is all plain enough, now. Richard 
Arden has been playing me false. It ought 
not to surprise me, perhaps. The girl, I 
still believe, has neither act nor part in the 
conspiracy. She has been duped by her 
brother. I have thrown myself upon her 
mercy ; I will now appeal to her jusiice. As 
for him — what vermin mankind are! He 
must return to his allegiance ; he will. After 
all, he may not like to lose me. He will 
act in the way that most interests his selfish- 
ness. Come, come ! it is no impracticable 
problem I ’m not cruel ? Not I! No, I’m 
not cruel ; but I am utterly just. I would 
not hang a mouse up by the tail to die, as 
they do in France, head downward, of hun- 
ger, for eating my cheese ; but should the 
vermin nibble at my heart, in that case, 
what says justice ? Alice, beautiful Alice, 
you shall have every chance before I tear 
you from my heart — oh, forever! Ambi- 
tion ! That coarse girl. Miss IMaubray, can’t 
understand you. Ambition, in her sense, 
you have none ; there is nothing venal in 
your nature. Vivian Darnley, is there any- 
thing in that either? I think nothing. I 
observed them closely, that night, at Mort- 
lake. No, there was nothing. My conver- 
sation and music interested her, and when I 
was by he was nothing. They are going to 
the Derby to-morrow. I think Lady May 
has treated me rather oddly, considering 
that she had all but borrowed my drag. She 
might have put me off civilly ; but I don’t 
blame her. She’ is good-natured, and if she 
has any idea that I and the Ardens are not 
quite on pleasant terms, it quite excuses it. 
Her asking me herei.and her little note to 
remind, were meant to show that she did not 
take up the quarrel against me. Never 
mind ; I shall know all about it, time enough. 
They are going to the Derby ti)-morrow. 
Very well, I shall go also. It will all be 
right yet. When did I fail ? When did I 
renounce an object? By Heaven, one way 
or other. I’ll accomplish this!” 

Tall^Ir. Longcluse rose, and looked round 
him; and, in deep thought, marched with a 
resolute step toward the house. 


CHAPTER XXXH. 

UNDER THE LIME-TREES. 

At this garden-party, marvellous as it may 
appear. Lord Wynderbroke has an aunt. 
How old she is I know not, nor yet with 
what conscience her respectable relations 
can permit her to haunt such places, and 
run a risk of being suffocated in doorways, 
or knocked down the steps by an enamored 
couple hurrying off to more romantic quar- 
ters, or of having her maudering old head 
knocked with a croquet-mallet, as she tot- 
ters drearily among the hoops. 

This old lady is worth conciliating, for she 
has plate and jewels, and three thousand a 
year, to leave ; and Lord Wynderbroke is a 
prudent man. ,^ He can bear* a great deal of 
money, and has no objection to jewels, and 
thinks that the plate of his bachelor and 
old-maid kindred, should gravitate to the 
centre and head of the house. Lord Wyn- 
derbroke was indulgent, and did not object 
to her living a little longer, for this aunt 
conduced to his air of juvenility more than 
the flower in the button-hole. However; 
she was occasionally troublesome, and on 
this occasion made an unwise mixture of 
fruit and other things ; and a servant glided 
into the music-room, and with a proper in- 
clination of his person, in a very low tone 
said : 

“ My lord. Lady Witherspoons is in her 
carriage at the door, my lord, and says her 
ladyship is indisposed, and begs, my lord, 
that your lordship will be as good as to 
hacompany her ’ome in her carriage, my 
lord.” 

“ Oh ! Tell her ladyship I am so very sorry, 
and will be with her in a moment.” And 
he turned with a very serious countenance 
to Alice. 

“ How extremely unfortunate ! When I 
saw those miserable cherries, I know how it 
would be ; and now I am torn away from 
this charming place ; and I ’m sure I hope 
she may be better soon, it is so (disgusting, 
he thought, but he said) melancholy ! With 
whom shall I leave you, Miss Arden ?” 

“ Thanks. I came with my brother, and 
here is my cousin, Mr. Darnley, who can tell 
me where he is.” 

“ With a croquet party, near the little 
bridge. I ’ll be your guide, if you ’ll allow 
me,” said Vivian Darnley, eagerly. 

“ Pray, Lord Wynderbroke, don’t let me 
delay you longer. I shall find my brother 
quite easily now. I so hope Lady Wither- 
spoons may soon be better!” 

“ Oh, yes, she always is better soon ; but 
in the mean time one is carried away, you 
see, and everything upset; and all becauvse, 
poor woman, she won’t exercise the smallest 
restraint. And she has, of course, a right 
to command me, being my aunt, you know, 
and — and — the whole thing is ineffably 
provoking.” 


80 


CHECKMATE. 



And thus he took his reluctant departure, 
not without a brief but grave scrutiny of 
Mr, Vivian Darnley. 

When he was gone, Vivian Darnley prof- 
fered his arm, and that little hand was placed 
on it, the touch of which made his heart 
beat faster. 

Though people were beginning to go, 
there was still a crush about the steps. 
This little resistance and mimic difficulty 
were pleasant to him for her sake. Down 
the steps they went together, and now he 
had her all to himself ; and silently for 
aAvhile he led her over the closely shorn 
grass, and into the green walk between the 
lime-trees, t^hat leads down to the little 
bridge. 

“Alice,’' at last he said; “Miss Arden, 
what have I done that you are so changed ?” 

“ Changed ! I don’t think I am changed. 
What is there to change me?” she said, 
carelessly, but in a low tone, as she looked 
along toward the flowers. 

“ It won’t do, Alice, repeating my ques- 
tion, for that is all you have done. I like 
you too well to be put ofi* with mere words. 
You are changed, and without a cause — no, 
I could not say that — not without a cause. 
Circumstances are altered ; you are in the 
great world now, and admired ; you have 
wealth and titles at your feet — Mr. Long- 
cluse with millions. Lord Wynderbroke with 
his coronet.” 

“ And who told you that these gentlemen 
were at my feet?” she exclaimed, with a 
flash from her fine eyes, that reminded him 


of moments of pretty childish anger, long 
ago. “If I am changed — and perhaps I 
am — such speeches as that would quite 
account for it. You accuse me of caprice — 
has any one ever accused you of imperti- 
nence ? ” 

“ It is quite true, I deserve your rebuke. 
I have been speaking as freely as if we were 
back again at Arden Court, or Ryndelmere, 
and ten years of our lives were as a mist 
that rolls away.” 

“ That’s a quotation from a song of Ten- 
nyson’s.” 

“I don’t know what it is from. Being 
melancholy myself, I say the words because 
they are melancholy.” 

“ Surely you can find some friend to con- 
sole you in your affliction.” 

“ It is not easy to find a friend at any 
time, much less when things go wrong with 
us.” 

“ It is very hard if there is really no one 
to comfort you. Certainly I shan’t try any- 
thing so hopeless as comforting a person 
who is resolved to be miserable. ‘There’s 
such a charm in melancholy, I would not, 
if I could, be gay.’ There’s a quotation 
for you, as you like verses — particularly 
what I call moping verses.” 

“Come, Alice! this is not like you; you 
are not so unkind as your words would 
seem; you are not cruel, Alice — you are 
cruel to no one else, only to me, your old 
friend.” 

“I have said nothing cruel,” said Miss 
Alice, looking on the grass before her ; 


CHECKMATE. 


81 


“ cruelty is too sublime a phrase. I don’t 
think I have ever experienced cruelty in iny 
life ; and I don’t think it likely that you 
have. I certainly have never been cruel to 
any one. ^ I ’m a very good-natured person, 
on the contrary, as my birds and squirrel 
would testify, if they could.” 

She laughed. 

“ I suppose people call that cruel which 
makes them suffer very much ; it may be 
but a light look or a cold word, but still it 
may be more than years of suffering to an- 
other. But I don’t think, Alice, you ought 
to be so with me. I think you might re- 
member old times a little more kindly.” 

“ I remember them very kindly — as 
kindly as you do. We were always very 
good friends, and always, I dare say, shall 
be. I shan’t quarrel. But I don’t like 
heroics: 1 think they are so unmeaning. 
There may be people who like them very 

well and There is Richard, I think, 

and he has thrown away his mallet. If his 
game is over, he will come now, and Lady 
May don’t want the people to stay late ; she 
is going into town, and I stay with her 
to-night. We are going to the Derby to- 
morrow.” 

“ I am going also — it was so kind of her ! 
— she asked me to be of her party,” said 
Vivian Darnley. 

“Richard is coming also; I have never 
been to the Derby, and I dare say we shall 
be a very pleasant party ; I know I like it 
of all things. Here comes Richard — he 
sees me. Was my uncle David here?” 

“ No.” 

“ I hardly thought he was, but I saw 
Grace Maubray, and I fancied he might 
have come with her,” she said, carelessly. 

“ Yes, she was here ; she came with Lady 
Tramway. They went away about half an 
hour ago.” 

So Richard joined her, and they walked 
to the house together, Vivian Darnley ac- 
companying them. 

“ I think I saw you a little spoony to- 
day, Vivian, did n’t I ? ” said Richard Ar- 
den, laughing. He remembered what Long- 
cluse once said to him about Vivian’s tendre 
for his sister, and did not choose that Alice 
should suspect it. “ Grace Maubray iS a 
very pretty girl.” 

“ She may be that, though it doesn’t strike 
me,” began Darnley. 

“ Oh I come, I ’m too old for that sort of 
disclaimer; and I d(4n’t see why you should 
be so modest about it. She is clever and 
pretty.” 

“ Yes, she is very pretty,” said Alice. 

“ I suppose ‘she is, but you ’re quite mis- 
taken if you really fan(iy I admire Miss 
Maubray. I don't,'” said Vivian, vehemently. 

Richard Arden laughed again, but pru- 
dently urged the point no more, intending 
to tell the story that evening, as he and Alice 
drove together into town, in the way that 
best answered his purpose. 

6 


CHAPTER XXXni. 

THE DERBY. 

The morning of the Derby dawned auspi- 
ciously. 

The w'eather-cocks, th'e sky, and every 
other prognostic portended a fine, cloudless 
day, and many an eye peeped early from 
bed-room window to read these signs, re- 
joicing. 

“Ascot would have been more in o?fr way,” 
said Lady May, glancing at Alice, when the 
time arrived for taking their places in the 
carriage. “ But the time answered, and we 
shall see a great many people we know there. 
So you must not think I have led you into a 
very fast expedition.” 

Richard Arden took the reins. The foot- 
men were behind, in charge of hampers 
from Fortnum and Mason’s, and inside oppo- 
site to Alice sat Lord Wynderbroke; and 
Lady May’s vis-d-vis was Vivian Darnley. 

Soon they had got into the double stream 
of carriages of all sorts. There are closed 
carriages with pairs of fours, gigs, hansom 
cabs fitted with gauze curtains, dog-carts, 
open carriages with hampers lashed to the 
foot-boards, dandy drags, bright and pol- 
ished, with crests ; vans, cabs, and indes- 
cribable contrivances. There are horses 
worth a hundred and fifty guineas a-piece, 
and there are others that look as if the 
knacker should have them. There are all 
sorts of raws, and sand-cracks, and broken 
knees. There are kickers and roarers, and 
bolter and jibbers — such a crush and medley 
in that densely packed double line that jogs 
and crushes along you can hardly tell how. 

Sometimes one line passes the other, and 
then sustains a momentary check, while the 
other darts forward; and now and then a 
panel is smashed, with the usual altercation, 
and dust unspeakable eddying and floating 
everywhere in the sun ; all sorts of chaff 
exchanged, mail-coach horns blowing, and 
general impudence and hilarity ; gentlemen 
wdth veils on, and ladies with lighted hoods 
over their bonnets, and all sorts of gauzy de- 
fences against the dust. 

The utter novelty of all these sights and 
sounds highly amuses Alice, to whom they 
are absolutely strange. 

“ I am so* amused,” she said, “ at the 
gravity with which you all seem to take 
these wonderful doings. I could not have 
flincied anything like it. Is n’t that Bor- 
rowdale ? ” 

“ So it is,” said Lady May. “ I thought he 
was in France. He does n’t see us, I think.” 

He did see them, but it was just as he 
was cracking a personal joke with a busman, 
in which the latter had decidedly the best 
of it, and he did not care to recognize his 
lady acquaintances at disadvantage. 

“ What a fright that man is!” said Lord 
Wynderbroke. 

“ But his team is the prettiest in England, 


82 


CHECKMATE. 


except Long;clu8e’s/'said Darnley; “and, by 
Jove, there 's Longclusc’s drag ! ” 

“ Those are very nice horses,’' said Lord 
Wynderbroke, looking at L()ng(^iise’s team, 
as if he had not heard Darn ley’s observa- 
tion. “ They are worth looking at, Miss 
Arden.” 

Longcluse was seated on the box, with a 
veil on, through which his white smile was 
indistinctly visible. 

“ And what a fright he is, also ! He looks 
like a picture of Death I once saw, with a 
cloth half over his face ; or the Veiled Pro- 
phet. By Jove, a curious thing that the two 
most hideous men in England should have 
between them the two prettiest teams on 
earth ! ” 

Lord Wynderbroke looks at Darnley wdth 
raised brows, vaguely. He has been talk- 
ing more than his lordship perhaps thinks 
he has any business to talk, especially to 
Alice. 

“You will be more diverted still when we 
have got upon the course,” interposed Lord 
Wynderbroke. “ The variety of strange 
people there — gypsies, you know, and all 
that — mountebanks, and thimble - riggers, 
and beggars, and musicians — you ’ll wonder 
how such hordes could be collected in all 
England, or where they come from.” 

“ And although they make something of a 
day like this, how on Carth do they contrive 
to exist all the other days of the year, when 
people arc sober, and minding their busi- 
ness ? ” added Darnley. 

“ To me the pleasantest thing about the 
drive is our finding ourselves in the open 
country. Look out of the window there — 
trees and farmsteads — it is so rural, and 
such an odd change ! ” said Lady May. 

'“ And the young corn, I ’m glad to see, is 
looking very well,” said Lord Wynderbroke, 
who was something of an agriculturist. 

“And the oddest thing about it is our 
being surrounded, in the midst of all this 
rural simplicity, with the population of Lon- 
don,”, threw in Vivian Darnley. 

“ Remember, Miss Arden, our wager, ’’said 
Lord Wynderbroke; “you have backed May 
Queen.” 

“ May ! she should be a cousin of mine,” 
said good Lady May, firing oflF her little pun, 
which was received very kindly by her au- 
dience. 

“Ha, ha! I did not think of that; she 
should certainly be the most popular name 
on the card,” said Lord Wynderbroke. “I 
hope I have not made a great mistake. Miss 
Arden, in betting against so — so auspicious 
a name.” 

“I shan’t let you off, though. I’m told 
I’m very likely to win — isn't it so?” she 
asked Vivian. 

“ Yes, the odds are in favor of May Queen 
now ; you might make a capital hedge.” 

“ You don’t know what a hedge is, I dare 
say, Miss Arden ; ladies don’t always quite 
understand our turf language,” said Lord 


Wynderbroke, with a consideration which he 
hoped that very forward young man, on whom 
he fancied Miss Arden looked good-natured- 
ly, felt as he ought. “ It is called a hedge, 
by betting men, when ” and he expound- 

ed the meaning of the term. 

The road had now become more free, as 
they approached the course, and Dick Arden 
took advantage of the circumstance to pass 
the omnibuses, and other lumbering vehicles, 
which he soon left far behind. The grand 
stand now rose in view — and now they were 
on the course. The first race had not yet 
come off, and young Arden found a good 
place among the triple line of carriages. 
OIF go the horses ! Miss Arden is assisted 
to a cushion on the roof ; Lord Wynderbroke 
and Vivian take places beside her. The sun 
is growing rather hot, and her parasol is up. 
Good-natured Lady May is a little too stout 
for climbing, but won’t hear of any one’s 
staying to keep her company. Perhaps when 
Richard Arden, who is taking a walk by the 
ropes, and wants to see the horses which are 
showing, returns, she may-have a little talk 
with him at the window. In the mean time, 
all the curious groups of figures, and a hun- 
dred more, which Lord Wynderbroke prom- 
ised — the monotonous challenges of the fel- 
lows with games of all sorts, the whine of the 
beggar for a little penny, the guitarring, 
singing, barrel-organing, and the gipsy in- 
viting Miss Arden to try her lucky sixpence 
— all make a curious and merry Babel about 
her. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A SHARP COLLOQUY. 

On foot, near the weighing stand, is a tall, 
powerful, and clumsy fellow, got up gaudily 
— a fellow with a lowering red face, in a 
loud good-humor, very ill-looking. 

He is now grinning and chuckling with 
his hands in his pockets, and talking with a 
little Hebrew, young, sable-haired, with the 
sallow tint, great black eyes, and fleshy nose 
that characterize his race. A singularly sul- 
len mouth aided the effect of his vivid eyes, 
immaking this young Jew’s face ominous. 

“Young Dick Harden’s ’ere,” said Mr. 
Levi. 

“ Eh ? is he ? ” said the big man with the 
red face and pimples, the green cut-away 
coat, gilt buttons, pujrple neck-tie, yellow 
waistcoat, white cord tights, and top-boots. 

“Walking down there,” said Levi, point- 
ing with his thumb over his shoulder. “I 
shaw him shpeak to a fellow in chocolate and 
gold livery.” 

“ And an engle on the button, I know. 
That 's Lady May Penrose’s livery,” said his 
companion. “ He came down with her, I lay 
you fifty. And he has a nice sister as ever 
you set eyes on — pretty gal, Mr. Levi — a 
reg’lar little angel,” and he giggled after 


CHECKMATE. 83 


Ills "vront. “ If there a dragful of hangels 
anyvere, she^s one of them. I saw her yes- 
terday in one of Lady May Penrose’s car- 
riages in St. James’s Street. Mr. Longcluse 
is engaged to be married to her ; you may see 
them linked arm-in-arm, any day you please, 
walkin’ hup and down Hoxford Street. And 
her brother, Richard Harden, is to marry 
Lady May Penrose. That will be a warm 
family yer, them Hardens, arter all.” 

“ A family with a title, Mr. Ballard, be it 
never so humble, sir, like ’ome, shweet ’ome, 
hash nine livesh in it; they’ll be down to 
the last pig, and not tl>e thickness of an old 
tizzy between them and the glue-pot; and 
while you ’d write your name across the back 
of a cheque, all’s right again. The title 
doesh it. You never shaw a title in the 
workus yet, Mr. Ballard, and you’ll wait 
awhile befo^-e you ’av a hoppertunity of shay- 
in’, ‘ My lord dooke, I hope your grashe’s 
water-gruel is salted to your noble tashte 
thish morning,’ or, * My noble marquishe, I 
humbly hope you are pleashed with the fit 
of them pepper-and-salts ; ’ and, ‘ My lord 
earl, 1 ’m glad to see by the register you took 
a right honorable twisht at the crank thish 
morning.’ No, Mishter Ballard, you nor me 
won’t shee that, shir.” 

While these gentlemen enjoyed their 
agreeable banter, and settled the fortunes of 
Richard Arden and Mr. Longcluse, the lat- 
ter person was walking down the course in 
the direction in which Mr. Levi had seen 
Arden go, in the hope of discovering Lady 
# May’s carriage. Longcluse w^as in an odd 
state of excitement. He had entered into 
the spirit of the carnival. Voices all around 
were shouting, Twenty to five on Dothe- 
boys ; ” or, “ A hundred to five against Para- 
chute.” 

“ In what ? ” called Mr. Longcluse to the 
latter challenge. * 

“ In assassins ! ’* cried a voice from the 
crowd. 

Mr. Longcluse hustled his way into the 
thick of it. 

“ Who said that? ” he thundered. 

No one could say. No one else had heard 
it. Who cared ? lie recovered his coolness 
quickly, and made no further fuss about it. 
People were too busy with other things to 
bother themselves about his questions, or his 
temper. He hurried forw^ard after young 
Arden, whom he saw at the turn of the 
course, a little way on. 

The first race no one cares much about ; 
compared with the great event of the day, it 
is as the farce before the pantomine, or the 
oyster before the feast. 

The bells had not yet rung out their warn- 
ing, and Alice said to Vivian : 

“ How beautifully that girl with the tam- 
bourine danced and sang ! I do so hope 
she ’ll come again ; and she is, I think, so 
perfectly lovely. She is so like the picture 
of La Esmeralda ; did n’t you think so ? ” 

” Do you really wish to see her again ? ” 


said Vivian. “ Then if she ’s to be found on 
earth you shall see her.” 

He was smiling, but he spoke in the low 
tone that love is said to employ and under- 
stand, and his eyes looked softly on her. He 
was pleased that she enjoyed everything so. 

In a moment he had jumped to the ground, 
and with one smile back at the eager girl he 
disappeared. 

And now the bells were ringing, and the 
police clearing the course. And now the 
cry “ They ’re nfi*! they’reofi*!” came roll- 
ing down the crowd like a hedge-fire. 

Lord Wynderbroke offers Alice his race- 
glass, but ladies are not good at optical aids, 
and she prefers her e^^es; and the earl con- 
stitutes himself her sentinel, and will report 
all he sees, and stands on the roof beside her 
place, with the glasses to his eyes. And 
now the excitement grows. Beggar-boys, 
butcher-boys, stable-helps, jump up on car- 
riage-wheels unnoticed, and cling to the roof 
with filthy fingers. 

And now they are in sight, and a wild 
clamor arises. “Red'sfirst!” “No, Blue!” 
“ White leads ! ” “ Pink ’s first ! ” 

And here they are ! White, crimson, 
pink, black, yellow — the silk jackets quiver- 
ing like pennons in a storm — the jockeys 
tossing their arms madly about, the horses 
seeming actually to fly; swaying, reeling, 
whirring, the whole thing passes, in a beau- 
tiful drift of a moment, and is gone 1 

Lord Wynderbroke is standing on tip-toe, 
trying to catch a glimpse of the caps as they 
show at the opening nearer the winning-post. 
Vivian Darniey is away in search of La 
Esmeralda. Miss Arden has seen the first 
race of the day, the first she has ever seen, 
and is amazed and delighted. The intruders 
who had been clinging to the carriage now 
jump down, and join the crowd that crush 
on toward the winning-post, or break in on 
the course. But there rises at the point 
next her a figure she little expected to see so 
near, that day. Mr. Longcluse has swung 
himself up, and stands upon the wheel. He 
is bare-headed, his hat is in the hand he 
clings by. In the other hand he holds up a 
small glove — a lady’s glove. His face is 
very pale. He is not smiling; he looks with 
an expression of pain, on the contrary, and 
very great respect. 

“ Miss Arden, will you forgive my ventur- 
ing to restore this glove, which I happened 
to see you drop as the horses passed?” 

She looked at him with something of sur- 
prise and fear, and drew back a little instead 
of taking the proffered glove. 

“ I find I have been too presumptuous,” 
he said, gently. “ I place it there. I see, 
Miss Arden, I have been maligned. Some 
one has wronged me cruelly. I plead only 
for a fair chance — for God’s sake, give me 
a chance. I don’t ssLy hear me now, only 
say you won’t condemn me utterly un- 
heard.” 

He spoke vehemently, but so low that, 


84 


CHECKMATE. 


amid the luibliuh of other voices, no one but 
Miss Arden, on whom his eyes were fixed, 
could hear him. 

I take my leave. Miss Arden, and may 
God bless you. But I rest in the hope that 
your noble nature wdll refuse to treat any 
creature as my enemies would have you 
treat me.’' ' 

His looks were so sad and even reverential, 
and his voice, though low, so full of agony, 
that no one could suppose the speaker had 
the least idea of forcing his presence upon 
the lady a moment longer than sufficed to 
ascertain that it was not welcome. He was 
about to step to the ground, when he saw 
Bichard Arden striding rapidly up with a 
very angry countenance. Then and there 
seemed likely to occur what the newspapers 
te;yn an ungentleman-like fracas. 

Richard Arden caught him, and pulled 
him roughly to the ground. Mr. Longcluse 
staggered back a step or two, and recovered 
himself. His pale face glared wickedly, for 
a moment or two, on the flushed and haughty 
young man ; his arm was a little raised, and 
his fist clenched. I dare say it was just the 
turn of a die, at that moment, whether he 
struck him or not. 

These two bosom friends, and sworn bro- 
thers, of a .week or two ago, were confronted 
now with strange looks, and in threatening 
attitude. How frail a thing is the worldly 
man’s friendship, hanging on flatteries and 
community of interest! A word or two of 
truth, and a conflict or even a divergence of 
interest, and Avhere is the liking, the friend- 
ship, the intimacy? 

A sudden change marked the pale face of 
Mr. Longcluse. The vivid fires that gleamed 
for a movient from his eyes sunk in their 
dark sockets, the intense look changed to one 
of sullen gloom. He beckoned, and said 
coldly, “ Please follow me ; ” and then turned 
and walked, at a leisurely pace, a little way 
iriAvard from the course. 

Richard Arden, ]iorhaps, felt that had he 
hesitated, it would Jiave reflected on his 
courage. He theref )re disregarded the pride 
that would have .scorned even a seeming 
compliance with that rather haughty sum- 
mons, and he followed him, with something 
of the odd dreamy feeling which men experi- 
ence when they are stepping, consciously, 
into a risk of life. Ho thought tliat Mr. Long- 
cluse was inviting the interview for the pur- 
pose of arranging the preliminaries of who 
were to act as their “ friends,” and where 
each gentleman was to be heard of, that 
evening. 

He followed, with oddly conflicting feel- 
ings, to a place in the rear of some tents. 
Here was a sort of booth. Two doors ad- 
mitted to it — one to the longer room, where 
was whirling that roulette round which men 
who, like Richard Arden, could not deny 
themselves, even on the meanest scale, the 
excitement of chance gain and loss, were 
betting and bawling. Into the smaller 


room of plank, which was now empty, they 
stepped. 

” Now, sir, you ’ll be so good as to observe 
that you have taken upon you a rather seri- 
ous responsibility in laying your hand on 
me,” said Longcluse, in a very low tone, 
coldly and gently. “In France, such a pro- 
fanation would be folloAved by an exchange 
of shots, and here, under other circum- 
stances, I should exact the same chance of 
retaliation. I mean to deal differently — 
quite differently. I have fought too many 
duels, as you know, to be the least appre- 
hensive of being misunderstood, or my cour^ 
age questioned. For your sister’s sake, not 
yours, I take a peculiar course with you. I 
offer you an alternatiA^e : you may have re- 
conciliation — here is my hand ” (he extend- 
ed it) — “or you may abide the other con- 
sequence, at which I shan’t hint, in pretty 
near futurity. You don’t accept my hand?” 

“No, sir,” said Arden, haughtily — more 
than haughtily, insolently. “ I can have no 
desire to renew an acquaintance with you. 
I shan’t do that. I ’ll fight you, if you like 
it. I ’ll go to Boulogne, or wherever you 
like, and we can have our shot, sir, whenever 
you please.” 

“No, if you please — not so fast. You 
decline my friendship — that offer is over,” 
said Longcluse, lowering his hand reso- 
lutely. “I am not going to shoot 3U)U — I 
have not the least notion of that. I shall 
take, let me see, a different course with you, 
and I shall obtain on reflection your entire 
concurrence Avith the hopes I have no idea 
of relinquishing. You Avill probably under- 
stand me pretty clearly, by-and-by.” 

Richard Arden Avas angry ; he was puz- 
zled : he wished to speak, but could not 
light quickly on a suitable answer. Long- 
cluse stood for some*econds, smiling his pale 
sinister smile upon him, and then turned on 
his heel, and Avalked quietly out upon the 
grass, and disappeared in the crowd. 

Richard Arden was irresolute. He thrcAV 
open the door and entered the roulette-room 
— looked round on all the strange faces, 
that did not mind him, or seem to see that 
he was there — then, with a sudden change 
of mind, he retraced his steps more quickly, 
and folloAved Longcluse through the other 
door. But there he could not trace him. 
He had quite Amnished. Perhaps, next morn- 
ing, he was glad that he had missed him, 
and had been compelled to “ sleep upon it.” 

Now and then, with a sense of disagreea- 
ble uncertainty, recurred to his mind the 
mysterious intimation, or rather menace, 
with which he had taken his departure. 

It AA'as not, hoAvever, his business to look 
up Longcluse. He had himself seemed to 
intimate that the balance of insult Avas the 
other way. If “satisfaction,” in the slang 
of the duellist, Avas to be looked for, the 
initiative devoh^d undoubtedly upon Long- 
cluse. 

Alice Avas so placed on the carriage that 


CHECKMATE. 


85 


she did not see what passed immediately 
beside it, between Lon^cluse and her brother. 
Still, the appearance of this man, and his 
having accosted her, had agitated her a good 
deal, and for some hours the unpleasant 
effect of the little scene spoiled her enjoy- 
ment of this day of wonders. 

Very gayly, notwithstanding, the party 
returned — except, perhaps, one person wh^ 
had reason to remember that day. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

DINNER AT MORTLAKE. 

Lady May’s party from the Derby dined 
together late, that evening, at Mortlake. 
Lord Wynderbroke, of course, was included. 
He was very happy, and extremely agree- 
able. When Alice, and Lady May, who 
was to stay that night at Mortlake, and 
Miss Maubray who had come with uncle 
David, took their departure for the drawing- 
room, the four gentlemen who remained 
over their claret drew more together, and 
chatted at their ease. 

Lord Wynderbroke was in high spirits. 
He admired Alice more than ever. He 
admired everything. A faint rumor had 
got about that something was not very un- 
likely to be. It did not displease him. He 
had been looking at diamonds the day be- 
fore : he was not vexed when that amusing 
wag, Pokely, who had surprised him in the 
act, asked him that day, on the Downs, 
some sly questions on the subject, with an 
arch glance at beautiful Miss Arden. Lord 
Wynderbroke pooh-pooh’d this impertinence 
very radiantly. And now this happy peer, 
pleased with himself, pleased with every- 
body, with the flush of acomplacent elation on 
his thin cheeks, was simpering and chatting 
most agreeably, and commending everything 
to which his attention was drawn. 

In very marked contrast with this happy 
man was Richard Arden, who talked but 
little, Avas absent, utterly out of spirits, and 
smiled with a palpable effort when he did 
smile. 

His conversation with Lady May showed 
the same uncomfortable peculiarities. It 
was intermittent and bewildered. It sadr 
dened the good lady. Was he ill? or in 
some difficulty ? 

Now that she had withdrawn, Richard 
Arden seemed less attentive to Lord Wyn- 
derbroke than to his uncle. In so far as a 
wight in his melancholy mood could do so, 
he seemed to have laid himself out to please 
his uncle in those small ways where, in such 
situations, an anxiety to please can show 
itself. Once his father’s voice had roused 
him with the intimation, “Richard, Lord 
Wynderbroke is speaking to you and he 
saw a very url)anc smile on his thin lips, 
and encountered a very formidable glare 


from his dark eyes. The only subject on 
which Richard Arden at all brightened up 
was the defeat of the favorite. Lord Wyn- 
derbroke remarked : 

“ It seems to have caused a good deal of 
observation. I saw Hounsley and Crack- 
ham, and they shake their heads at it a good 
deal, and 

He paused, thinking that Richard Arden 
was going to interpose something, but noth- 
ing followed, and he continued: 

“ And Lord Shillingsworth, he ’s very Avell 
up in all these things, and he seems to think 
it is a very suspicious affair ; and old Sir 
Thomas Fetlock, who should have known 
better, has been hit very hard, and says 
he’ll have it before the Jockey Club.” 

“I don’4 mind Sir Thomas; he blusters 
and makes a noise about everything,” said 
Richard Arden ; “but it was quite palpable 
when the horse showed he was n’t fit to run. 

I don’t suppose Sir Thomas will do it, but it 
certainly will be done. I know a dozen men 
who will sell their horses, if it is n’t done. 

I don’t see h >w any man can take payment 
of the odds on Dotheboys — I don’t, I assure 
you — till the affair is cleared up : gentle- 
men, of course, I mean ; the other people 
would like the money all the better if it 
came to them by a swindle. But it certainly 
can’t rest where it is.” 

No one disputing this, and none of the 
other gentlemen being authorities of any 
A'alue upon turf matters, tlie subject dropped, 
and others came on, and Richard Arden was 
silent again. 

Lord Wynderbroke, who was to pass two 
or three days at Mortlake, and who had 
made up his mind that he was to leave that 
interesting place a promesso spom, was rest- 
less, and longed to escape to the drawing- 
room. So the sitting over the wine was not 
very long. 

Richard Arden made an effort, in the 
drawing-room, to retrieve his character with 
Lady May and Miss Maubray, who had been 
rather puzzled by his hang-dog looks and 
flagging conversation. 

“ There are times. Lady May,” said he, 
placing himself on the sofa beside her, 
“when one loses all faith in the future — 
when everything goes wrong, and happiness 
becomes incredible. Then one’s wisest 
course seems to be, to take off one’s hat to * 
the good people in this planet, and go off to 
another.” 

“Only that I know you so well,” snid 
Lady May, “I should tell Reginald — I 
mean your father — what you say; and [ 
think your uncle, there, is a magistrate for 
the county of Middlesex, and could commit 
you, couldn’t he? for any such foolish 
speech. Did you observe to-day — you saw 
him, of course — hoAV miserably ill poor 
Pindledykes is looking? I don’t think, 
really, he’ll be aliA’C in six months.” 

“ Don’t throAV away your compassion, dear 
Lady May. Pindledykes has always looked 


86 


CHECKMATE. 


dyinp; as long as I can remember, and on his 
his last legs ; but those last legs carry some 
fellows a long way, and I ^m very sure he ’ll 
outlive me.” 

“ And what pleasure can a person so very 
ill as he looks take in going to places like 
that?” ^ , 

“ The pleasure of winning other people’s 
money,” laughed Arden, sourly. “Pindle- 
dykes knows very well what he ’s about. 
He turns his time to very good account, and 
wastes very little of it, I assure you, in 
pitying other people’s misfortunes.” 

“I’m glad to see that you and Richard 
are on pleasanter terms,” said David Arden 
to his brother, as he sipped his tea beside 
him. 

“Egad! we are not, though. ^ hate him 
worse than ever. Would you oblige me by 
putting a bit of wood on the fire ? I told 
you how he has treated me. I wonder, 
David, how the devil you could suppose we 
were on pleasanter terms I” 

Sir Reginald was seated with his crutch- 
handle stick beside him, and an easy fur 
slipper on his gouty foot, which rested on 
a stool, and was a great deal better. He 
leaned back in a cushioned arm-chair, and 
his fierce, prominent eyes glanced across the 
room, in the direction of 'his son, with a 
flash like a scimitar’s. 

“ There ’s no good, you know, David, in 
exposing one’s ulcers to strangers — there ’s 
no use in plaguing one’s guests with family 
quarrels.” 

“ Upon my word, you disguised this one 
admirably, for I mistook you for two people 
on tolerably friendly terms.” 

“ I don’t want to plague Wynderbroke 
about the puppy ; there is no need to men- 
tion that he has made so much unhappiness. 
You won’t, neither will I.” 

David nodded. 

“ Something has gone wrong with him,” 
said David Arden, “and I thought you 
might possibly know.” 

“Not I.” 

“ I think he has lost money on the races 
to-day,” said David. 

“ I hope to heaven he has ! I ’m glad of 
it. It will do me good ; let him settle it out 
of his blackguard post-obit,” snarled Sir 
Reginald, and ground his teeth. 

“ If he has been gambling, he has disap 
pointed me. He can, however, disappoint 
me but once. I had better thoughts of 
him.” 

So said David Arden, with displeasure in 
his frank and manly face. 

“ Playing ? Of course he plays, and of 
course he ’s been making a blundering book 
for the Derby. He likes the hazard-table 
and the turf, he likes play, and he likes 
making books ; and what lie likes he does. 
He always did. I ’m rather pleased you 
have been trying to manage him. You ’ll 
find him a charming person, and you ’ll un- 
derstand what I have had to combat with. 


He ’ll never do any good ; he is so utterly 
graceless.” 

“I see my father looking at me, and I 
know what he means,” said Richard Arden, 
with a smile, to Lady May ; “ I ’m to go and 
talk to Miss Maubray. He wishes to please 
uncle David, and Miss Maubray must be 
talked to ; and I see that uncle David envies 
me my little momentary happiness, and 
meditates taking that empty chair beside 
you. You’ll see whether I am right. By 
Jove ! here he comes ; I shan’t be turned 
away so ” 

“Oh, but really. Miss Maubray has been 
quite alone,” urged poor Lady May, very 
much pleased; “and you must, to please 
me; I’m sure you will.” 

Instantly he arose. 

“ I don’t know whether that speech is 
most kind or ww-kind ; you banish me, but 
in language so flattering to my loyalty that 
I don’t know whether to be pleased or 
pained. Of course I obey.” He said these 
parting words in a very low tone, and had 
hardly ended them when David Arden took 
the vacant chair beside the good lady, and 
entered into conversation with her. 

Once or twice his eyes wandered to Rich- 
ard Arden, who was by this time talking 
with returning animation to Grace Mau- 
bray, and the look was not cheerful. 

The young lady, however, was soon inter- 
ested, and her good-humor was clever and 
exhilarating. I think that she a little ad- 
mired this handsome and rather clever 
young man, and who can tell what such a 
fancy may grow to? ^ 

That night, as Richard Arden bid him 
good-by, his uncle said, coldly enough : 

“ By-the-by, Richard, would you mind 
looking in upon me to-morrow, at five in the 
afternoon ? I shall have a word to say to 
you.” 

So the appointment was made, and Rich- 
ard entered his cab, and drove into town 
dismally. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

MR. LONGCLUSE SEES A LADy’s NOTE. 

Next day, Mr. Longcluse paid an early 
visit at uncle David’s house, and saw Miss 
Maubray in the drawing-room. 

The transition from that young lady’s 
former to her new life was not less dazzling 
than that of the heroine of an Arabian tale, 
who is transported by friendly genii, while 
she sleeps, from a prison to tiie palace of a 
sultan. 

Uncle David did not care for finery ; no 
man’s tastes could be simpler and more 
camp-like. But these drawing rooms were 
so splendid, so elegant and refined, and yet 
so gorgeous in effect, that you would have 
fancied that he had thought of nothing else 
all his life but china, marqueterie, buhl. 


87 


CHECKMATE. 


Louis Quatorze clocks, mirrors, pale-green 
and gold cabriole cliairs, statuettes, bronzes, 
pictures, and all the textile splendors, the 
names of which I know not, that make 
floors and windows magnificent. 

The feminine nature, facile and self-adapt- 
ing, had at once accommodated itself to the 
dominion over all this, and all that attended 
it. And Miss Maubray being a lady, a girl 
who had, in her troubled life, been much 
thrown among high-bred people — her father 
a gentle, fashionable, broken-down man ; and 
her mother a very elegant and charming 
woman — there was no contrast, in look, air, 
or conversation, to mark that all this was 
new to her ; on the contrary, she became it 
extremely. 

The young lady was sitting at the piano 
when Longcluse came in, and to the expir- 
ing vibration of the chord at which she was 
interrupted she rose, with that light, float- 
ing ascent which is so pretty, and gave him 
her hand, and welcomed him with a very 
engaging smile. 

She thought he was a likely person to be 
able *to throw some light upon two rumors 
which interested her. 

“ How do you contrive to keep your rooms 
so deliciously cool ? The blinds are down 
and the windows open, but that alone won’t 
do, for I have just left a drawing-room that 
is very nearly insupportable ; yours must be 
the work of some of those pretty sylphs that 
poets place in attendance upon their hero- 
ines. How fearfully hot yesterday was ! 
You did not go to the Derby with Lady 
May’s party, I believe.” 

lie watched her clever face, to discover 
whether she had heard of the scene between 
him and Richard Arden — “I don’t think 
she has.” 

“No,” she said, “my guardian, Mr. Ar- 
den, took me there instead. On second 
thoughts, I feared I should very likely be in 
the way. One is always de trap where there 
is so much love-making; and I am a very 
bad gooseberry.” 

“ A very dangerous one, I should fancy. 
And who are all these lovers? ’’ 

“Oh, really, they are so many, it is not 
easy to reckon them up. Alice Arden, for 
instance, had two lovers — Lord Wynder- 
broke and Vivian Darnley.” 

“What, two lovers charged upon one 
lady? Is not that false heraldry ? And does 
she really care for that young fellow. Darn- 
ley ? ” 

“ I ’m told she really is deeply attached 
to him. But that does not prevent her ac- 
cepting Lord Wynderbroke. He has spoken, 
and been accepted. Old Sir Reginald told 
my guardian, his brother, last night, and he 
told me in the carriage, as we drove home. 
I wonder how soon it will be. I should 
rather like to be one of her bridesmaids. 
Perhaps she will ask me.” 

Mr. Longcluse felt -giddy and stunned ; 
but he said, quite gayly: 


“ If she wishes to be suitably attended, 
she certainly will. But young ladies gene- 
rally prefer a foil to a rival, even when so 
very beautiful as she is.” 

“ And there was Vivian Darnley at one 
side, I ’m told, whispering all kinds of sweet 
things, and poor old Wynderbroke at the 
other, with his glasses to "his eyes, reporting 
all he saw. Only think ! What a goose the 
old creature must have looked ! ” 

And the young lady laughed merrily. 

“But can you tell me about the other 
alFair ? ” she tasked. 

“ What is it? ” 

“Oh! you know, of course — Lady May 
and' Richard Arden ; is it true that it was 
all settled the day before yesterday, at that 
kettle-drm:n ? ” 

“There again my information is quite 
behind yours. I did not hear a word of it.” 

“But you must have seen how very much 
in love they both are. Poor young man ! I 
really think it would have broken his heart 
if she had been cruel, particularly if it is 
true that he lost so mujch as they say on the 
Derby yesterday. I suppose he did. Do 
you know ? ” 

“ I ’m sorry to say,” said Mr. Longcluse, 
“I’m afraid it’s only too true. I don’t 
know exactly how much it is, but I believe 
it is more than he can, at present, very well 
bear. A mad' thing for him to do. I’m 
really sorry, although he has chosen to 
quarrel with me most unreasonably.^’ 

“Oh? I wasn’t aware. I fancied you 
would have heard all from him.” 

- “ No, not a word — no»” 

“ Lady May was talking tome at Raleigh 
Court, the day we were there — she can 
talk of no one else, poor old thing? — and 
she said something had happened to make 
him and his sister very angry. She would 
not say what. She only said, ‘ You know 
how very proud they are, and I really ^link,’ 
she said, ‘ they ought to have been very 
much pleased, for everything, I think, was 
most advantageous.’ And from this I con- 
clude there must have been a proposal for 
Alice ; I shall ask her when I see her.” 

“ Yes, I dare say they are proud. Richard 
Arden told me so. lie said that his family 
were always considered proud. lie was 
laughing, of course, but he meant it.” 

“ lie’s proud of being proud, I dare say. 
I thought you would be likely to know 
whether all they say is true. It would be a 
great pity he should be ruined ; but, you 
know, if all the rest is true, there are re- 
sources.” 

Longcluse laughed. 

“ He has always been very particular and 
a little tender in that quarter ; very sweet 
upon Lady May, I thought,” said he. 

“Oh, Very much gone, poor thing!” said 
Grace Maubray. “I think my guardian 
will have heard all about it. He was very 
angry, once or twice, with Richard Arden, 
about his losing so much money at play. I 


88 


CHECKMATE. 


believe he has lost a great deal at different 
times/' 

“ A great many people do lose money so. 
For the sake of excitement, they incur losses, 
and risk even their utter ruin." 

"How foolish!" exclaimed Miss Mau- 
bray. " Have you heard anything more 
about that affair of Lady Mary Playfair and 
Captain Mayfair? He is now, by the death 
of his cousin, quite sure of the title, they 
say." 

"Yes, it must come to him. His uncle 
has got something wrong with his leg, a 
fracture that never united quite ; it is an 
old hurt, and I 'm told he is quite breaking 
up now. He is at Buxton, and going on to 
Vichy, if he lives, poor man." 

" Oh, then, there can be no difficulty now." 

" No, I heard yesterday it is all settled." 

" And what does Caroline Chambray say 
to that ? " 

And so on they chatted, till his call was 
ended, and Mr. Longcluse walked down the 
steps, with his head pretty busy. 

At the corner of a street he took a cab ; 
and, as he drove to Lady May's, those frag- 
ments of his short talk with Grace Maubray 
that most interested him were tumbling over 
and over in his mind. " So they are angry, 
very angry ; and very proud, haughty people. 
I had no business dreaming of an alliance 
with Mr. Richard Arden. Angry, he may 
be — he may affect to be — but I don't believe 
she is. And proud, is he? Proud of her he 
might be, but what else has he to boast of? 
Proud and angry — ha, ha! Angry and proud. 
We shall see. Such people sometimes grow 
suddenly mild and meek. And she has 
accepted Lord Wynderbroke. I doubt it. 
Miss Maubray, you are such a good-natured 
girl that, if you suspected the torture your 
story inflicted, you would invent it, rather 
than spare a fellow-mortal that pang." 

In this we know he was a little unjust. 

J‘ Well, Miss Arden, I understand your 
brother; I shall soon understand ?/ou. At 
present I hesitate. Alas! must I place you, 
too, in the schedule of my lost friends. Is 
it come to this ? — 
y 

1 ‘“Once I held thee dear as pearl, 

Now I do abhor thee.’” 

Mr. Longcluse's chin rests on his breast 
as, with a faint smile, he thus ruminates. 

The cab stops. The light frown that had 
contracted his eycbrow-s disappears ; he 
glances quickly up at the drawing-room 
windows, mounts the steps, and knocks at 
the hall-door. 

" Is Lady May Penrose at home ? " he 
asked. 

" I'll inquire, sir." ^ 

Was it fancy, or was there in his recep- 
tion something a little unusual, and ominous 
of exclusion ? 

lie was, notwithstanding, shown up stairs. 
Mr. Longcluse enters the drawing-room : 


Lady May will see him in a few minutes. 
He is alone. 

At the further end of this room is a smaller 
one, furnished like the drawing-room, the 
same curtains, carpet, and style, but much 
more minute and elaborate in ornamentation 
— an extremely pretty boudoir. He just 
peeps in. No, no one there. Then slowly 
he saunters into the other drawing-room, 
picks up a book, lays it down, and looks 
round. 

Quite solitary is this room also. His coun- 
tenance changes a little. With a swift, noise- 
less step, he returns to the room he first en- 
tered. 

There is a little marqueterie table, to 
which he directs his steps, just behind the 
door from the staircase, under the pretty old 
buhl clock, that ticks so merrily with its old 
wheels and lever, exciting the reverential 
curiosity of Monsieur Racine, who keeps it 
in order, and comments on its antique works 
with a mysterious smile every time he comes, 
to any one Avho will listen to him. 

The door is a little bit open. All the bet- 
ter, Mr. Longcluse will hear any step that 
approaches. On this little table lies an open 
note, hastily thrown there, and the pretty 
handwriting he has recognized. He knows ’ 
it is Alice Arden's. 

Without the slightest scruple, this odd 
gentleman takes it up and reads a bit, and 
looks toward the door ; reads a little more, 
and looks again, and so on to the end. 

On the principle that listeners seldom hear 
good of themselves, Mr. Longcluse's cautious 
perusal of another person's letter did not tell 
him a pleasant tale. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

WHAT ALICE COULD SAY. 

The letter which Mr. Longcluse held be- 
fore his eyes was destined to throw a strong 
light upon the character of Alice Arden's 
feelings respecting himself. 

After a few lines, it went on to say: — 
" And, darling, about going to you this even- 
ing. I luci dly know what to say, or, I mean, 
I hardly know how to say it. Mr. Longcluse, 
you know, may come in at any moment, and 
I have quite made up my mind that I cannot 
know him. I told you all about the incred- 
ible scene in the garden at Mortlake, and I 
showed you the very cool letter Avith Avhich 
he saw fit to follow it — and yesterday the 
scene at the races, by which he contrived to 
make everything so uncomfortable — so,Tny 
dear creature, I mean to be cruel, and cut 
him. I am quite serious. He has not an 
idea how to behave himself; and the only 
way to repair the folly of having made the 
acquaintance of such an ill-bred person is, 
as 1 said, to cut him — you must not be angry 
— and Richard thinks exactly as I do. So, 


CHECKMATE. 


89 


* 


as I lonp; to see you, and, in fact, canT live I 
away from you very long, we must contrive 
some way of meeting now and then, without 
the risk of being disturbed by him. In the 
mean time, you must come more to Mortlake. 
It is too bad that an impertinent, conceited 
man should have caused me all this real vex- 
ation.” 

There was but little more, and it did not 
refer to the only subject that interested Long- 
cluse, just then. 

lie would have liked to read it through 
once more, but he thought he heard a step. 
He let it fall where he had found it, and 
walked to the window. Perhaps, if he had 
read it again, it would have lost some of the 
force which a first impression gives to sen- 
tences 80 terrible ; as it was, they glared 
upon his retina, through the same exaggera- 
ting medium through which his excited imag- 
ination and feelings had scanned them at first. 

Lady May entered, and Mr Longcluse paid 
his respects, just as usual. You would not 
have supposed that anything had occurred to 
ruflle him. 

Lady May was just as alfable as usual, but 
very much graver. She seemed to have some- 
thing on her mind, and not to know how to 
begin. 

At length, after some little conversation, 
which flagged once or twice — 

“ I have been thinking, Mr. Longcluse, I 
must have appeared very stupid,” says Lady 
May. ” I did not ask you to be one of our 
party to the Derby ; and I think it is always 
jjest to be quite frank, and I know you like 
it best. I^m afraid there has been some lit- 
tle misunderstanding. I hope in a short time 
it will be all got over, and everything quite 
pleasant again. But some of our friends — « 
you, no doubt, know more about it than I do, 
for, I must confess, I don^t very well under- 
stand it — are vexed at something that has 
occurred, and ” 

Poor Lady May was obviously struggling 
with the difficulties of her explanation, and 
Mr. Longcluse relieved her. 

‘‘ Pray, dear Lady May, not a word more ; 
you have always been so kind to me. Miss 
Arden and her brother choose to visit me 
with their displeasure. I have nothing to 
reproach ntyself with, except with having 
misapprehended the terms on which Miss 
Arden is pleased to place me. She may, 
however, be very sure that I shan't disturb 
l)er happy evenings here, or anywhere as- 
sume my former friendly privileges.” 

“ But, Mr. Longcluse, I 'm not to lose your 
acquaintance,” said kindly Lady May, who 
was disposed- to take an indulgent and even 
a romantic view of Mr. Longcluse’s extrav- 
agances. ” Perhaps it may be better to 
avoid a risk of meeting, under present circum- 
stances; and, therefore, when I 'm quite sure 
that no such awkwardness can occur, I can 
easily send you a line, and you will come if 
you can. You will do just as it happens to 
answer you best at the time.” 


“ It is extremely kind of you, Lady May. 
My evenings here have been so very happy, 
that the idea of losing them altogether would 
make me more melancholy than I can tell ” 

“Oh, no, I could not consent to lose you, 
Mr. Longcluse, and I 'm sure, this little 
quarrel can't last very long. Where people 
are amiable and friendly, there may be a 
misunderstanding, but there can't be a real 
quarrel, I maintain.” 

With this little speech the interview closed, 
and the gentleman took a friendly leave. 

Mr. Longcluse was in trouble. Blows had 
fallen rapidly upon him of late. But, as 
light is polarized by encountering certain 
incidents of reflection and refraction, grief 
entering his mind changed its character. 

'rhe only articles of expense in which Mr. 
Longcluse indulged — and even in those 
his indulgence was very moderate — were 
horses. He was something of a judge of 
horses, and had that tendency to form friend- 
ships and intimacies with them which is 
proper to some minds. 

One of these he mounted, and rode away 
into the country, unattended. He took a 
long ride, at first at a tolerably hard pace. 
He chose the loneliest roads he could find. 
His exercise brought him no appetite ; the 
interesting hour of dinner passed unim- 
proved. 

The horse was tired now. Longcluse was 
slowly returning, and looking listlessly to 
his right, he thus soliloquized: 

“ Alone again. Not a soul in human 
shape to disclose my wounds to, not a soul. 
This is the way men go mad. He knows too 
well the torture he consigns me to. How 
often has my hand helped him out of the 
penalties of the dice-box and betting-book ! 
How wildly have I •committed myself to 
him ; how madly have I trusted him ! How 
plausibly has he promised ! The confounded 
miscreant ! Has he good nature, gratitude, 
justice, honor ? Not a particle. He has 
betrayed me, slandered me fatally, where 
only on earth I dreaded slander, and he 
knew it ; and he has ruined the only good 
hope I had on earth. He has launched it: 
sharp and heavy is the curse. Wait; it shall 
find him out. And she! I did not think 
Alice Arden could have written that letter. 
My eyes are opened. Well, she has refused 
to hear my good angel ; the other may speak 
differently.” 

He Avas riding along a narrow old road, 
with pailings, and quaint old hedge-rows, 
andonoAV and then an old-fashioned biick 
house, staid and comfortable, with a cluster 
of lofty timber embowering it, and chimney 
smoke curling cozily over the foliage ; and 
as he rode along, sometimes a window, with 
very thick white sashes, and a multitude of 
very small panes, sometimes the summit of 
a gable appeared. The lowing of unseen 
coAvs Avas heard over the fields, and the 
whistle of the birds in the hedges ; and be- 
hind spread the cloudy sky of sunset, shoAV- 


90 


CHECKMATE. 



ing'a peaceful Old World scene, in -which 
Izaak Walton’s milkmaid might have set 
down her pail, and sung her pretty song. 

/ Not another footfall Avas heard but the 
clink of his own horse’s hoofs along the nar- 
row road ; and, as he looked Avestward, the 
flush of the sky threw an odd sort of fire- 
light OA-er his death-paie features. 

“ Time AAnll unroll his book,” said Long- 
cluse, dreamily, as he rode onAvard, with a 
loose bridle on his horse’s neck, “and my 
fingers will trace a name or tAVO on the 
pages that are passing. That sunset, that 
sky — how grand, and glorious, and serene 
— the same always. Charlemagne saw it, 
and the Caesars saw it, and the Pharaohs 
saAv it, and AA^e see it to-day. Is it AA^orth 
while troubling ourselves here ? IIoav grand 
and quiet nature is, and how beautifully im- 
perturbable ! Why not Ave, who last so short 
a time — Avhy not drift on with it, and take 
the blows that come, and suffer and enjoy 
the facts of life, and leave its dreadful dreams 
untried? Of all the follies we engage in, 
what more hollow than revenge — vainer 
than Avealth ? ” 

Mr. Longcluse was preaching to himself, 
Avith the usual success of preachers. He 
knew himself what his harangue Avas driving 
at, although it borrowed the vagueness of 
the sky he was looking on. lie fiincied that 
he was discussing something with himself, 
Avhich, nevertheless, Avas settled — so fixed, 
indeed, that nothing had poAvcr to alter it. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

GENTLEMEN IN TROUBLE. 

Mr. Longcluse had noAA’’ reached a turn 
in the road at which stands an old house 
that recedes a little way, and has four pop- 
lars growing in front of it, tAVO at each side 
of the door. There are mouldy walls, and 
gardens, fruit and A*egetable, in the rear, 
and in one Aving of the house the proprietor 
is licensed to sell beer and other refreshing 
drinks. This quaint green-grocery and pot- 
house was not flourishing, I conjecture, for 
a cab AAms at the door, and Mr. Goldshed, the 
i eminent IlebreAv, on the steps, apparently 
on the point of leaving. 

He is a short, square man, a little round- 
shouldered. He is very bald, Avith coarse, 
black hair, that might not unsuitably stuff 
a chair. His nose is big and drooping, his 
lips large and moist. He wears a black 
satin Avaistcoat, thrust up into wrinkles by 
his habit of stuffing his short hands, bedi- 
zened with rings, into his trousers’ pockets. 
He has on a peculiar low-crowned hat. He 
is smoking a cigar, and talking over his 
shoulder, at intervals, in brief sentences 
that have a harsh, brazen ring, and are 
charged with scoff and menace. No game 
is too small for Mr. Goldshed’s pursuit. He 
ought to haA^e made tAvo hundred pounds of 
this little venture. He has not lost, it is 
true ; but, Avhen all is squared, ho ’ll not 
haA^e made a shilling, and that for a Jcav, 
you knoAV, is very hard to bear. 


9 % 


CHECKMATE. 


In the midst of this intermittent snarl, 
the large, dark eyes of this man lighted on 
Mr. Longcluse, and he arrested the sentence 
that was about to fly over his shoulder, in 
the disconsolate faces of the broken little 
family in the passage, A smile suddenly 
beamed all over his dusky features, his airs 
of lordship quite forsook him, and he lifted 
his hat to the great man, with a cringing 
salutation. The weaker spirit was overawed 
by the more potent. It was the cat-ape, 
crowning Mephistopheles, in the witch’s 
chamber. 


“ Shertainly, Mr. Longclooshe, shertainly, 
shir.” 

And he hallooed. to the cabman to tell thd 
“ zhentleman ” who was coming out to over- 
take him in the cab on the road to town. 

This settled, Mr. Longcluse, walking his 
horse along the road, and his city acquaint- 
ance by his side, slowly made their way 
toward the city, casting long shadows over 
the low fence, into the field at their left ; and 
Mr. Goldshed’s stumpy legs were projected 
across the road in such slender proportions 
that he felt for a moment rather slight and 



Ho shuffled out upon the road, with a lazy 
smile, lifting his hat again, and very defer- 
entially greeted “ Mishter Longclooshe.” 
He had thrown away his exhausted cigar, 
and the red sun glittered in sparkles on the 
chains and jewelry that were looped across 
his wrinkled black satin waistcoat. 

“ How d ’ye do, Mr. Goldshed ? Anything 
particular to say to me?” 

“ Nothing, no, Mr. Longclooshe. I sposhe 
you heard of that dip in the Honduras.” 

“ They ’ll get over it, but we shan’t see 
them so high again soon. Have you that 
cab all to yourself, Mr. Goldshed ?” 

“ No, shir, my partner’sh with me. He ’ll 
be out in a minute ; he’sh only puttin’ a chap 
on to make out an inventory.” 

“ Well, I don’t want him. Would you 
mind walking down the road here, a cimple 
of hundred .‘^tcps or so? I have a word for 
you. Your partner can overtake you in the 
cab.^^ 


elegant, and was unusually disgusted, when 
he glanced down upon the substance of those 
shadows, at the unnecessarily clumsy style 
in which Messrs. Shears and Goslin had cut 
out his brown trousers. 

Mr. Longcluse had a good' deal to say 
when they got on a little. Being earnest, 
he stopped his horse ; and Mr. Goldshed, 
forgetting his reverence in his absorption, 
placed hiS broad hand on the horse’s shoul- 
der, as he looked up into Mr. Longcluse’s 
face, and now and then nodded, or grunted 
a “ Surely.” 

It was not until the shadows had grown 
perceptibly longer, until Mr. Longcluse’s 
hat had stolen away to the gilded stem of the 
old ash-tree that was in perspective to their 
left, and until Mr. Goldshed’s legs had 
grown so taper and elegant as to amount to 
the spindle, that the talk ended, and Mr. 
Longcluse, who was a little shy of being 
seen in such company, bid him good even- 



CHECKMATE. 


m 

ing, and rode away townward at a brisk 
trot. 

That morning Richard Arden looked as if 
he had got up after a month’s fever. His 
dinner had been a pretence, and his break- 
fast was a sham. His luck, as he termed it, 
had got him at last pretty well into a corner. 
The placing of the horses was a dreadful re- 
cord of moral impossibilities accomplished 
against him. 

Five minutes before the start he could 
have sold his book for three thousand pounds ; 
five minutes after it no one would have ac- 
cepted fifteen thousand to take it off his 
hands. The shock, at first a confusion, had 
grown in the night into ghastly order. It 
was all, in the terms of the good old simile, 
“ as plain as a pikestaff.” He simply could 
not pay. He might sell everything he pos- 
sessed, and pay about ten shillings in the 
pound, and then work his passage to another 
country, and become an Australian drayman, 
or a New Orleans billiard-marker. 

But not pay his bets ! And how could he? 
Ten shillings in the pound? Not five. He 
forgot how far he w^as already involved. 
What loas to become of him ? Breakfast he 
could eat none. He drank a cup of tea, but 
his tremors grew worse. He tried claret, 
but that, too, was chilly comfort. He was 
driven to an experiment he had never ven- 
tured before. He had a “ nip,” and another, 
and with this Dutch courage rallied a little, 
and was able to talk to his friend and ad- 
mirer, Vandeleur, who had made a minia- 
ture book after the pattern of Dick Arden’s, 
and had lost some hundreds, which he did 
not know how to pay, and who was. in his 
degree, as miserable as his chief; for is it 
not established that — • 

“ This poor beetle, that we tread upon. 

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great 
As when a giant dies ? ” 

Young Vandeleur, wdth light silken hair, 
and innocent blue eyes, found his paragon 
the picture of “ grim-visaged, comfortless 
despair,” drumming a tattoo on the window, 
in slippers and dressing-gown, without a 
collar to his shirt. 

“ You lost, of course,” said Richard, sav- 
agely- “You followed mv lead. Any fellow 
that does is sure to lose” 

“Yes,” answered Vandeleur, “I did, 
heavily; and, I give you my honor, I believe 
I ’m ruined.” 

“ How much ? ” 

“ Two hundred and forty pounds ! ” 
Ruined! What nonsense! Who are 
you ? or what the deuce are you making 
such a row about? Two hundred and forty! 
How can you be such a child? Don’t yoif 
know it ’s nothing? ” 

“Nothing! By Jove, I wish I could see 
it,” said poor Van; “everything’s some- 
thing to any one, when there ’s nothing to 
ay it with. I ’m not like you, you know ; 
’m awfully poor. I have just a hundred 


and twenty pounds from my office, and forty 
my aunt gives me, and ninety I get from 
home, and, upon my honor, that ’s all ; and 
I owed just a hundred pounds to some fellows 
that Avere growing impertinent. My tailor 
is sixty-four, and the rest are trifling, but 
they vi^ere the most impertinent, and I was 
so sure of this unfortunate thing that I told 
them — I really did — to call next week ; and 
now L suppose it ’s all up with me, I may as 
well make a bolt of it. Instead of having 
any money to pay them, I ’m two hundred 
and forty pounds worse than ever. I don’t 
know what on earth to do. Upon my honor, 
I have n’t an idea.” 

“ I wish we could exchange our accounts,” 
said Richard, grimly: “I wish you owed 
my sixteen thousand. I think you ’d sink 
through the earth. I think you ’d call for 
a pistol, and blow ” — (he was going to say, 
“ your brains out,” but he vv^ould not pay him 
that compliment) — “ blow your head off.” 

So it was the old case — “ Enter filburina, 
mad, in white satin; enter her maid, mad, in 
white linen.” 

And Richard Arden continued: 

“ What’s your aunt good for ? You know 
she will pay that: don’t let me hear a word 
more about it.” 

“And your uncle will pay yours, won’t 
he?” said Van, with an innocent gaze of his 
azure eyes. 

“ My uncle has paid some trifles before, 
but this is too big a thing. He ’s tired of 
me and my cursed misfortunes, and he ’s 
not likely to apply any of his overgroAvn 
wealth to relieving a poor tortured beggar 
like me. I ’m. simply ruined.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. 

Van was looking ruefully out of the win- 
dow, down upon the deserted pavement op- 
posite. 

At length he said : 

“And why don’t you give your luck a 
chance?” 

“ Whenever T give it a chance it hits me 
so devilish hard,” replied Richard Arden. 

“But I mean at play, to retrieve,” said 
Van. 

“ So do I. So I did, last night, and lost 
another thousand. It is utterly monstrous.” 

“ By Jove ! that is really very extraordi- 
nary,” exclaimed little Van. “ I tried it, 
too, last night. Tom Franklyn had some 
felloAVS to sup Avith him, and I went in, and 
they were playing loo; and I lost thirty- 
seven pounds more ! ” 

“ Thirty-seven confounded flea-bites ! Why, 
don’t you see how you torture me with your 
nonsense? If you can’t talk like a man of 
sense, for Heaven’s sake, shut up, and don’t 
distract me in my misery.” 


CHECKMATE. 


93 




^ He emphasized the words with a Lilipn- 
tian thump with the side of his fist — that 
which presents the edge of the doubled-up 
little finger and palm — a sort of buffer, 
which I suppose he thought he might safely 
apply to the pane of glass on which he had 
been drumming. But he hit a little too 
hard, or there was a flaw in the glass,* for the 
pane flew out, touching the window-sill, and 
^alighted in the area with a musical jingle. 

“ There ! see what you hare made me do. 
My luck ! Now we can’t talk without those 
brutes at that open window, over the Avay, 
hearing every word we say. By Jove, it is 
later than I thought! I did not sleep last 
night.” 

“ Nor I, a moment,” said Van. 

“ It seems like a week since those accursed 
races, and I don’t know whether it is morn- 
ing or evening, or day or night. It is past 
four, and I must dress and go to my uncle — 
he said five. Don’t leave me. Van, old fellow ; 
I think I should cut my throat if I were 
alone.” 

“ Oh, no, I ’ll stay with pleasure, although 
I don’t see what comfort there is in me, for 
I am about the most miserable dog in Lon- 
don.” 

“Now don’t make a fool of yourself any 
more,” said Richard Arden. “You have 
only to tell them at home, or to tell your 
aunt, and say that you are sorry, a prodigal 
son, and all that sort of thing, and it will be 
paid in a week. I look as if I was going to 
be hanged — or is it the color of that glass? 
I hate it. I’ll leave these cursed lodgings. 
Did you ever see such a ghost?” 

“ Well, you do look a trifle seedy: you ’ll 
look better when you’re dressed. It’s an 
awful world to live in,” said poor Van. 

“ I ’ll not be five minutes ; you must walk 
with me a bit of the way. I wish I had 
some fellow at my other side who had lost a 
hundred thousand ; I dare say he’d think 
me a fool. They say Chiftington lost a hun- 
dred and forty thousand. Perhaps he ’d 
think me as great an ass as I think you — 
w^ho knows? I may be making too much of 
it — and my uncle is so very rich, and 
neither wife nor child ; and, I give you my 
honor, I am sick of the whole thing. I’d 
never take a card or a dice-box in my hand, 
or back a horse, while I live, if I was once 
fairly out of it. He might try r»e, don’t you 
think? I’m the only near relation he has 
on earth — I don’t count my father, for he ’s 
— it’s a different thing, you know — I and 
my sister, just. And, really, it would be 
nothing to him. And I think he suspected 
something about it last night; perhaps he 
heard a little of it. And he’s rather hot, 
but he ’s a good-natured fellow, and he has 
commercial ideas about a man’s going into 
the insolvent court ; and, by Jove, you know, 
I’m ruined, and I don’t think he’d like to 
see our name disgraced — eh, do you ? ” 

“No, I’m quite sure,” said Van. “I 
thought so all along.” i 


“ Peers and peeresses are very fine in their 
way, and people, whenever the* peers do any- 
thing foolish, and throw out a bill, exclaim 
‘ Thank Heaven, we have still a House of 
Lords!’ But you and I, Van, may thank 
Heaven for a better estate, the order ,of aunts 
and uncles. *Do you remember the man you 
and I saw in the vaudeville, who exclaims 
every now and then, ‘ Vive man oncle ! Vive 
ma tante^ ? ”# 

So, in better spirits, Arden prepared to 
visit his uncle. 

“ Let us get into a cab; people are staring 
at you,” said Richard Arden, when they had 
walked a little way toward his uncle’s house. 
“You look so utterly ruined, one would 
think you had swallowed poison, and were 
dying by inches, and expected to be in the 
other world before you reached your doctor’s 
door. Here’s a cab.” 

They got in, and sitting side by side, said 
Vandeleur to him, after a moment’s silence : 

“ I ’ve been thinking of a thing — why did 
not you take Mr. Longcluse into council? 
He gave you a lift before, don’t you remem- 
ber ? and he lost nothing by it, and made 
everything smooth. Why don’t you look him 
up? ” 

“ I ’ve been an awful fool. Van.” 

“How so?” 

“ I ’ve had a sort of row with Longcluse, 
and there are reasons — I could not, at all 
events, have asked him. It would have been 
next to impcissible, and now it is quite im- 
possible.” 

“ AYhy should it be ? He seemed to like 
you ; and I venture to say he ’d be very glad 
to shake hands.” 

“ So he might, but I should n’t,” said 
Richard, imperiously. “ No, no, there ’s noth- 
ing in' that. It would take too long to tell ; 
but I should rather go over the precipice than 
hold by that stay. I don’t know how long 
my uncle may keep me. Would you mind 
waiting for me at my lodgings? Thompson 
will give you cigars and brandy and water ; 
and I ’ll come back and tell you what my 
uncle intends.” 

^ This appointment made, they parted, and 
he knocked at his uncle’s door. The sound 
seemed to echo threateningly at his heart, 
which sank with a sudden misgiving. 


CHAPTER XL. 

AN INTERVIEW IN THE STUDY. 

“ Is my uncle at home? ” 

“ No sir ; I expect him at five. It wants 
about five minutes; but he desired me to 
show you, sir, into the study.” 

He was now alone in that large square 
room. The books, each in its place, with a 
military precision and nattiness — seldom 
disturbed, I fancy, for uncle David was not 
much of a book-worm — chilled him with an 


94 


CHECKMATE. 


aspect of inflexible formality ; and the busts, 
in cold white, marble, standing at intervals 
on their pedestals, seemed to have called up 
looks, like Mrs. Pentweezle, for the occasion. 
Demosthenes, with his Avrenched neck and 
square brow, had evidently heard of his deal- 
ings with Lord Pindledykes, and made up 
his mind, when the proper time came, to sup- 
port uncle David Avith a tempest of appropri- 
ate eloquence. There was in |j^cero’8 face, 
lie thought, something satirical and conceited 
which was new and odious; and under Pla- 
to’s external solemnity he detected a pleas- 
urable and roguish anticipation of the coming 
scene. 

His uncle was very punctual. A few min- 
utes would see him in the room, and then two 
or three sentences would disclose the purpose 
he meditated. 

In the midst of the trepidation which had 
thus returned, he heard his uncle’s knock at 
the hall-door, and in another moment he en- 
tered the study. 

“ llow d ’ye do, Richard? You ’re punc- 
tual. I wish our meeting was a pleasanter 
one. Sit down., You have n’t kept faith with 
me. It is scarcely a year since, with a large 
sum of money, such as at your age I should 
have thought a fortune, I rescued you from 
bad hands and a great danger. Now, sir, do 
you remember a promise you then made me ? 
and have you kept your word ? ” 

“ I confess, uncle, I know I can’t excuse 
myself ; but I Avas tempted, and I am weak 
— I am a fool, worse than a fool — whatever 
you please to call me, and I ’m sorry. Can 
I say more ? ” pleaded the young man. 

“ That is saying nothing. It simply means 
that you do the thing that pleases you, and 
break your word where your inclination 
prompts ; and you are sorry because it has 
turned out unluckily. I have heard that you 
are again in danger. I am not going to help 
you.” His blue eyes looked cold and hard, 
and the oblique light showed seA^ere lines at 
his brows and mouth. It was a face which, 
generally kindly, could yet look, on occasion, 
stern enough. “ Now, observe, I ’m not going 
to help you ; I’m not even going to reason,^ 
with you — you can do that for yourself, if 
you please — I Avill simply help you Avith 
ligJit. Thus forewarned you need not, of 
course, answer any one of the questions I am 
about to put, and to ask which, I have no 
other claim than that which rests upon hav- 
ing put you on your feet, and paid five thous- 
and pounds for you, only a year ago.” 

“ But I entreat that you do. put them. I ’m 
ashamed of myself, dear uncle David ; I im- 

f lore of you to ask me whatever you please : 
’ll answer everything.” 

“ Well, I think I know everything; Lord 
Pindledykes makes no secret of it. He ’s the 
man, is n’t he ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“That’s the sallow, dissipated-looking 
fellow, with the eye that squints outward. 
I know his appearance very well ; I knew 


his good-for-nothing father. No one likes to 
have transactions Avith that fellow — he’s 
shunned — and you choose him, of all people ; 
and he has pigeoned jmu. I ’ve heard all 
about it. Everybody knows by this time. 
And you have really lost fifteen thousand 
pounds to him ? ” 

“ I am afraid, uncle, it is very near tha^’ 

“ This, you know,” resumed uncle David, 
“ is not debt : it is ruin. You chose to mort- 
gage your reversion to some Jews, for fifteen 
hundred a year, during your father’s life- 
time. Three hundred would have been am- 
ple, Avith the hundred a year you had before 
— ample; but you chose to do it, and the 
estates, Avhenever you succeed to them, will 
come to you with a very heavy debt charge, 
for those Jews, upon them. I don’t suppose 
the estates are destined to continue long in 
our family ; but that is a vexation which 
don’t touch you, nepheAV. 1 am, I confess, 
sorry. They were in our family, some of 
them, before the Conquest. No matter. 
What you have to consider is your present 
position. They will come to you, if ever, 
saddled with a heavy debt; and, in the mean- 
time, you have fifteen hundred a year for 
your father’s life; and I don’t think it Avill 
sell for anything like the fifteen thousand 
pounds you have just lost. You are there- 
fore insolvent ; there is the story told. I see 
nothing for it but your becoming formally an 
insolvent. It is the bourgeoisie Avho shrink 
from that sort of thing ; titled men, anJ men 
of pleasure and fashion, don’t seem to mind 
it. There are Lord Harry Newgate, and the 
Honorable Alfred Pentonville, and Sir Ay- 
merick Pigeon, one of the oldest baronets -in 
England, have been in the Gazette within 
the last twelve months. The money I paid, 
on the faith of your promise, is worse than 
w-asted. I ’ll pay no more into the pockets 
of rooks and scoundrels ; I ’ll divide no more 
of my money among blackguard jockeys and 
villanous noblemen, simply to defer for a few 
months the consequences of a fool’s incorri- 
gible folly.” 

“ But, you know, uncle, I was not quite 
so mad. The thing Avas a swindle ; it can’t 
stand. The horse Avas not fairly treated.” 

“I dare say; I suppose it Avas doctored. 
I don’t care ; I only think that, unless you 
meant to go in for drugging horses and 
bribing jocl^ys, you had no business among 
such people, and at that sort of game. All 
I want is that you clearly understand that 
in this matter — though I would gladly see 
you safely out of it — I’ll waste no more 
money in paying gambling debts.” 

“ This might have happened to any one, 
sir ; it might indeed, uncle. Every second 
man you meet is more or less on the turf, 
and they never come to grief by it. No one, 
of course, can stand against a barefaced 
swindle, like this thing.” 

“ I don’t care a farthing about other 
people ; I ’ve seen how it tells upon you. 
I don’t affect to value your promises, Dick ; 


CHECKMATE. 


95 


I don’t think that they are worth a shilling. 
How many have you made me, and broken ? 
To me it seems the vice is incurable, like 
drunkenness. Tattersall’s, or wliatever is 
your place of business, is no better than the 
gin-palace ; and when once a fellow is fairly 
on the turf, the sooner he is under it, the 
better for himself and all who like him. 
And you have lost money at play besides. 
I heard that quite accidentally ; and I dare 
say that is a ruinous item in what I may 
call your schedule.” 

“ I know what people are saying ; but it 
isn’t so immense a sum, by any means.” 

“ I ’m sorry to hear it. I wish it was 
enormous ; I wish it was a million. I wish 
your failure could ruin every blackguard in 
England ; the more heavily you have hit 
them all round, the better I am pleased. 
They hit you and • me, Dick, pretty hard 
last time ; it is our turn now. It is not my 
fault now, Dick, if you don’t understand me 
perfectly. If at any future time I should 
do anything for you — by my icill, mind — I 
shall take care so to tie it up that you can’t 
make away with a guinea. My advice is 
not worth much to you, but 1 venture to 
give it, and I think the best thing you can 
do is to submit to your misfortune, and file 
your schedule ; and when you are your own 
master again, I shall see if I can manage 
some small thing for you. You will have 
to work for your bread, you know, and you 
can’t expect very much at first: but there 
are things — of course, I mean in commer- 
cial establishments, and railways, and that 
kind of thing — where I have an influence, 
of from a hundred and twenty to two hun- 
dred pounds a year, and for some of them 
you would answer pretty well, and you can 
tide over the time till you succeed to the 
title ; and after a little wjiile I may be able 
to get you raised a step ; and when once you 
get accustomed to woVk, you can’t think 
how you will come to like it. So that, on 
the whole, the knock you have got may do 
you some good, and make you prize your 
position more when you come to it. Will 
you go up stairs, and take a cup of tea with 
Miss Maubray ? ” 

lie used to call her Grace, when speaking 
to Richard. Perhaps, in the concussion of 
this earthquake, the fabric of a matrimonial 
scheme may have fallen to the ground. 

Richard Arden was too dejected and too 
agitated to accept this invitation, I need 
hardly tell you. lie took his leave, chap- 
fallen. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

TAN APPOINTS HIMSELF TO A DIPLOMATIC 
POST. 

Mr. Vandeleur had availed himself very 
freely of Richard Arden’s invitation to 
amuse* himself during his absence with his 


cheroots and manillas, as the clouded state 
of the atmosphere of his drawing-room testi 
fied to that luckless gentleman — if indeed 
he was in a condition to observe anything, 
on returning from his dreadful interview 
with his uncle. 

Richard’s countenance was full of thunder 
and disaster. Vandeleur looked in his face, 
with his cigar in his fingers, and said, in a 
faint and hollow tone : 

Well?” 

To which inappropriate form of inquiry, 
Richard Arden deigned no reply ; but in 
silence stalked to the box of cigars on the 
table, threw himself into a chair, and smoked 
violently for awhile. 

Some minutes passed. Vandeleur’s eyes 
were fixed, through the smoke, on Richard’s, 
who had fixed his on the chimney-piece. 
Van respected his ruminations. 

With a delicate and noiseless attention, 
indeed, he ventured to slide gently to his 
side the water carafe, and the brandy, and 
a tumbler. 

Still, silence prevailed. 

After a time, Richard Arden poured 
brandy and water suddenly into his glass. 

“ Think of that fellow, that uficle of mine 
— pretty uncle ! Kind relation — rolling in , 
money ! He sends for me simply to tell me 
that he won’t give me a guinea. He might 
have waited till he was asked. If he had 
nothing better to say, he need not have given 
me the trouble of going to his odious, 'bleak 
study, to hear all his vulgar advice and 
arithmetic, ending in — what do you think ? 
lie says that I ’m to be had up in the bank- 
rupt court, and when all that is over he ’ll 
get me appointed a ticket-taker on a railway, 
or a clerk in a pawn-office, or something. By 
Heaven ! when I think of it, I wonder how I 
kept my temper. I ’m not quite driven to 
those curious expedients, that he seems to 
think so natural. I ’ve some cards still left 
in my hand, and I ’ll play them first, if it is 
the same to him ; and hang it ! my luck 
can’t always run the same way. I ’ll give it 
another chance before I give up, and to-mor- 
row morning things may be very difi’erent 
with me.” 

“ It is an awful pity you quarrelled with 
Longclnse! ” exclaimed Vandeleur. 

“That ’s done, and can’t be undone,” said 
Richard Arden, resuming his cigar. 

“ I wonder why you quarrelled with him. 
Why, good heavens ! that man is made of 
money, and he got you safe out of that fel- 
low’s clutches — I forget his name — about 
that bet with Mr. Slanter, don’t you remem- 
ber? — and he was so very kind about it ; and 
I ’m sure he ’d shake hands if you ’d only 
ask him, and one way or another he ’d pull 
you through.*’ 

“I can’t ask him, and I won’t; he may 
ask me if he likes. I ’m very sure there is 
nothing he would like better, for fifty rea- 
sons, than to be on good terms with me 
again, and I have no wish to quarrel any 


96 


CHECKMATE. 


more than he has. But if there ivS to he a 
reconciliation, I can’t be^in it. He must 
make the overtures, and that’s all.” 

“ He seemed such an awfully jolly fellow 
that time. And it is such a frightful state 
we are both in. I never came such a mucker 
before in my life. I know him pretty well. 
I met him at Lady May Penrose’s, and at 
the Playfairs’, and one night I walked home 
with him from the opera. It is an awf^j 
ity you are not on terms with him, and — 
y Jove ! I must go and have something to 
eat; it is near eight o’clock.” 

Away went Van, and out of the wreck of 
his fortune contrived a modest dinner at 
Verey’s; and pondering, after dinner, upon 
the awful plight of himself and his comrade, 
he came at last to the heroic resolution of 
braving the dangers of a visit to Mr. Long- 
cluse, on behalf of his friend ; and as it was 
now past nine, he hastily paid the waiter, 
took his hat, and set out upon his adventure. 

It was a mere chance, he knew, and a very 
unlikely one, his finding Mr. Longcluse at 
home at that hour. lie knew that he was 
doing a very odd thing in calling at past nine 
o’clock ; but the occasion was anomalous, 
and Mr. Longcluse would understand. 

He knocked at the door, and learned from 
the servant that his master was engaged with 
a gentleman, in the study, on business. 
From this room he heard a voice, faintly, 
discoursing in a deep metallic drawl. 

“Who shall I say, sir?” asked the ser- 
vant. 

If his mission had been less momentous, 
and he less excited and sanguine as to his 
diplomatic success, he would have, as he said, 
“ funked it altogether,” and gone away. 

He hesitated for a moment, and deter- 
mined upon the form most likely to procure 
an interview. 

“Say Mr. Vandeleur — a friend of Mr. 
Richard Arden’s: you’ll remember, please 
— a friend of Mr. Richard Arden’s.” 

In a moment the man returned. 

“ Will you please to walk up stairs?” and 
he showed him into the drawing-room. 

In a little more than a minute, Mr. Long- 
cluse himself entered. His eyes were fixed 
on the visitor with a rather stern curiosity. 
Perhaps he had interpreted the term 
“friend” a little too technically. He made 
him a ceremonious bow, in French fashion, 
and placed a chair for him. 

“I had the pleasure of being introduced 
to you, Mr. Longcluse, at Lady May Pen- 
rose’s. My name is Vandeleur.” 

► “ I have had that honor, Mr. Vandeleur, 

I remember perfectly. The servant men- 
tioned that you announced yourself as Mr. 
Arden’s friend, if I mistake not.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

DIPLOMACY. 

Mr. Vandeleur and Mr. Longcluse were 
now seated, and the former gentleman said: ' 

“Yes, I am a friend of Mr. Arden’s — so 
much so that I have ventu^ what I hope 
you won’t think a very mipCTtinent liberty. 
I was so very sorry to hear that a misunder- 
standing had arisen — I did not ask him 
about what — and he has been so unlucky 
about the Derby, you know — I ought to say 
that I am, upon my honor, a mere volunteer, 
so perhaps you will think I have no right to 
ask you to listen to me.” 

“ I shall be happy to continue this con- 
versation, Mr. Vandeleur, upon one condi- 
tion.” 

“ Pray name it.” 

“ That you report it fully to the gentleman, 
for whom you are so good as to interest your- 
self.” 

“ Yes, I ’ll certainly do that.” 

Mr. Longcluse looked by no means so jolly 
as A^an renaembered him, and he thought he 
detected at mention of Richard Arden’s 
name, for a moment, a look of positive mal- 
evolence — I can’t say absolutely, it may 
have been fancy — as he turned quickly, 
and the light played suddenly on his pale 
face. 

Mr. Longcluse could, perhaps, dissemble 
as well as other men ; but there were cases 
m which he would not be at the trouble to 
dissemble. And here his expression was so 
unpleasant, upon features so strangely 
marked and so white, that A^an thought the 
effect ugly, and even ghastly. 

“ I shall be happy, then, to hear anything 
you have to say,” said Longcluse, gently. 

“ You are very kind. I was just going^to 
say that he has been so unlucky — he has 
lost so much money ” 

“I had better say, I think, at once, Mr. 
Vandeleur, that nothing shall tempt me to 
take any part in Mr. Arden’s affairs.” 

Van’s mild blue eyes looked on him 
wonderingly. 

“ You could be of so much use, Mr. Long- 
cluse ! ” 

“ I don’t desire to be of any.” 

“ But — but that may be, I think it must, 
in consequence of the unhappy estrange- 
ment.” 

He had been conning over phrases on his 
way, and thought that a pretty one. 

“ A very happy estrangement, on the con- 
trary, for the man who is straight and true, 
and who is by it relieved of a great — mis- 
take.” 

“ I should be so extremely happy,” said 
A^an, lingeringly, “ if I were instrumental in 
inducing both parties to shake hands.” 

“ I don’t desire it.” 

“ But, surely, if Richard Arden were the 
first to offer ” 

“ I should decline.” 


C H E C K M ATE. 


9T 


♦ 



Van rose ; he fiddled with his hat a little; 
he hesitated. He had staked too much on 
this — for had he not promised to report the 
whole thing to Richard Arden, who was not 
likely to be pleased ? — to give up without 
one last effort. 

“ I hope I am not very impertinent,’’ he 
said, “ but I can hardly think, Mr. Long- 
cluse, that you are quite indifferent to a re- 
conciliation.” 

“ 1 ’m not indifferent — I ’m averse to it.” 

‘‘ I don’t understand.” 

“ Will you take some tea? ” 

“ No, thanks ; I do so hope that I don’t 
quite understand.” 

” That ’s not my fault ; I have spoken very 
distinctly.” 

‘‘Then what you wish to convey i.s ” 

said Van, with his hand now at the door. 

“ Is this,” said Longcluse, ‘‘ that I de- 
cline Mr. Arden’s acquaintance, that I 
won’t consider his affairs, and that I per- 
emptorily refuse to be of the slightest use to 
him in his difficulties. I hope I am now 
sufficiently distinct.” 

‘‘Oh, perfectly — I — ” 

‘‘ Pray take some tea.” 

“ And my visit is a failure. I ’m awfully 
sorry I can’t be of any use ! ” 

‘‘None here, sir, to Mr. Arden — none, no 
more than I.” 

“ Then I have only to beg of you to accept 
my apologies for having given you a great 
deal of trouble, and to beg pardon fi)r 
having disturbed you, and to say good 
night.” 

7 


“No trouble — none. I am glad everj^- 
thing is clear now. Good night.” 

And Mr.^ Longcluse saw him politely to 
the door, and said again, in a clear, stern 
tone, but with a smile and another bow, 
“ Good night,” as he parted at the door. 

About an hour later a servant arrived with 
a letter for Mr. Longcluse. The gentleman 
recognized the hand, and suspended his busi- 
ness to read it. lie did so with a smile. It 
was thus expressed ; — 

“ Sir: — I beg to inform you, in the distinctest terms, 
that neither Mr. Vandeleur nor any other gentleman had 
any authority from me to enter into any discussion with 
you, or to make the slightest allusion to subjects upon 
which Mr Vandeleur, at your desire, tells me he, this 
evening, thought fit to converse with you. And I beg, in 
the most pointed manner, to disavow all connection with, 
or previous knowledge of, that gentleman’s visit and con- 
versation. And I do so lest Mr, Vandeleur’s assertion to 
the same elTect should appear imperfect without mine. — 
I remain, sir, your obedient servant, 

“ Richard Arden. 

“To M'alter Longcluse, Esq.” 

“Dock any one wait for an answer?” he 
asked, still .smiling. 

“Yes, sir: Mr. Thompson, please, sir” 

“ Very well ; ask him to wait a moment,” 
said he, and he wrote as follows : — 

“ Mr. Longcluse takes the liberty of returning Mr. Ar- 
den’s letter and begs to decline any correspondence with 
him.” 

And this note, with Richard Arden’s 
letter, he enclosed in an envelope, and ad- 
dressed to that gentleman. 

While this correspondence., by no means 
friendly, was proceeding, other letters were 


98 


C II E C K M A T E. 


interesting, very profoundly, other persons 
in this di iinui. 

Old David Arden had returned early from 
a ponderous dinner of the magnates nf that 
world which interested him more than the 
world of fashion, or even of politics, and he 
was sitting in his study at half-past ten, 
about a quarter of a mile westward of Mr. 
Longcluse’s house in Bolton Street. •' 

Not many letters had come for him by the 
late post. There were two which he chose 
to read forthwith. The rest would, in 
Swift’s phrase, keep cool, and he could read 
them before his breakfast in the morning. 

The first was a note posted at Islington. 
He knew his niece’s pretty hand. This was 
an “advice” from Mortlake. 'I'he second 
which he picked from the little pack was a 
foreign letter, of more than usual bulk. 


CHAPTER XLIir. 

A LETTER AND A SU.^MONS. 

Paris? Yes, he knew the hand well. 
His face darkened a little with a peculiar 
anxiety. This he will read first. He draws 
the candles all together, near the corner of 
the table at which he sits. He can’t have 
too much light on these formal lines, legible 
and tall as the letters are. He opens the 
thin envelope, and reads what follows: — 

“Dear akd Hoxored Sir: — lam in receipt of yoiira 
of the loth instant. You judge me rightly in supposing 
that I have entered on my mission with a willing mind, 
and no thought of sparing myself. On the 11th instant I 
presented the letter you were so good as to provide me 
with to M. de la Perrierre. lie received me with much 
consideration in consequence. You have not been misin- 
formed with regard to liis position. His influence is, and 
so long as the present Cabinet remain in power will con- 
tinue to be, more than sufficient to procure for me the 
* information and opportunities you so much desire. He 
e.xplaiued to me very fully the limits of that assistance 
which official people here have it in their power to afl'ord. 
Their prerogative is more extensive than w ith us, but at 
tlic same time it has its points of circumscription. Every 
private citizen has well defined rights, wdiich they can in 
no case invade. He says that had I come armed with afifi- 
davits criminating any individual, or even justifying a 
strong and distinct suspicion, their powers would be much 
larger. As it is, he cautions me against taking any steps 
that might alarm Vanboeren. The baron is a suspicious 
man, it seems, and has, moreover, once or twice been 
under official surveillance, which has made him crafty. 
He is not likely to be caught napping. He ostensibly 
practises the professions of a surgeon and dentist. In the 
latter capacity ho has a very considerable business. But, 
his principal income is derived, I am informed, from 
sources of a different kind.” 

“ H’m ! what can he mean ? I suppose 
he explains a little further on,” mused Mr. 
Arden. 

“ He is, in short, a practitioner about whom suspicious 
of an infamous kind have prevailed. One branch of his 
business, a rather strange one, has connected him with 
persons, more considerable in number than you would 
readily believe, who were, or are, political refugees.” 

“ Can this noble baron be a distiller of 
poisons?” David Arden ruminated. 

“In all his other equivocal doings, he found, on the few 
occasions that seemed to threaten dsiiger, mysterious pro- 
tectors, sufficiently powerful to^bring him off scot-free. 


His relations of a political character were those which 
chiefly brought liim under the secret notice of the police. 
It is believed that he has amassed a fortune, and it is cer- 
tain that he is about to retire from business I can much 
better explain to you when I see you tiie remarkable cir- 
cninstaiice to which I have but alluded. I hope to be in 
town again, and to have the honor of waiting upon you, 
on Thursday, the 29th iustaut.” 

“ Ay, that’s the day he named at parting. 
What a punctual fellow that is ! ” 

“They appear to me to have a very distinct bearing 
upon Slime possible views of the case in which you are so 
justly interested. Tlie Baron Vanboeren is reputed very 
wealtliy, but he is by no niesns liberal in his dealings, and 
is said to be pisatiably avaricious. This last quality may 
make him practicable ” 

“Yes, so it may,” acquiesced uncle David. 

“ So that disclosures of importance may be obtained, if 
he Is} approached in the proper manner. Lebas was con- 
necte<l as a mechanic witli the dentistry department of 

his business. Mr. L has boon extremely kind to Le- 

bis’ widow and children, and has settled a small annuity 
upon her, and fifteen hundred francs each upon his chil- 
dren.” 

“ Eh ? Upon my life, that is very hand- 
some — extremely handsome. It gives me 
rather new ideas of this man — that is, if 
there’s nothing odd in it,” said Mr. Arden. 

“The deed by which ho has done all this is, in its reci- 
ting part, an eccentric one. I waited, as I advised you in 
mine of the 12th, upon M. Arnand, who is the legal man 
employed by Madame lifibas, for the purpose of handing 
him the ten napoleons which you were so good as to trans- 
mit for the use of liis family ; which sum he lias, with 
many thanks on the part of Madame Lebas, deeliinul, and 
which, therefore, I hold still to your rredit. When ex- 
plaining to me tiiat lady’s reasons for declining your re- 
mittance, he requested me to read a deed of gift from Mr. 
Longcluse, making the provisions I liave before referred 
to, and reciting, as nearly in these words as I can remem- 
ber : ‘ Whereas I entertained for the deceased Pierre Le- 
bas, in whose house in Paris I lodged, when very j’oung, 
for more than a year and a half, a very great respect and 
regard: and whereas I hold myself to have been the inno- 
cent cause of his having gone to the room, as appears 
from my evidence, in which, unhappily, he lost his life: 
and wliereas I look upon it as a disgrace to our city of 
London that such a crime could have been committed in 
a place of public resort, frequented as that was at the time, 
without either interruption or detection: and wliereas, so 
regarding it, I think that such citizens as could well afford 
to subscribe money, adequately to compensate the family 
of the deceased for the pecuniary loss w'hich both his 
wddow and children have sustained by reason of his death, 
were bound to do so; bis visit to Loudon having been 
strictly a commercial one; andall persons connected with 
the trade of London being more or loss interested in the 
safety of the commercial intercourse between the two 
countries : and whereas, the citizens of London have 
failed, although applied to for the purpose, to make any 
such compensation: now this deed witnesseth,’ etc.” 

“ AVell, in all that I certainly go with him. 
We Londoners ought to be ashamed of our- 
selves.” 

“ The w'idow has taken her children to Avranches, her 
native place, where she means to live. Please direct me 
whetlier I shall proceed thither, and also upon what par- 
ticular points you would wish me to interrogate her. I 
have learned, this moment, that the baron A'anboeren n - 
tiros in October next. It is thought that he will fix lii.s 
residence after that at Berlin. My informant undertakes 
to advise me of his address, whenever it is absolutely set- 
tled. In approaching this baron, it is tliought you will 
have to exercise caution and dexterity, as he has the repu- 
tation of being cunning and unscrupulous.” 

“I’m not good at dealing with such peo- 
ple — I never Avas. I must engage some 
long-headed felloAV Avho understands them,” 
said he. 

% 

“I debit myself with two thousand five hundred francs, 
the amount of your remittance of the 15th inet., for which 


99 


CHECKMATE. 

I will account at flight. — I remain, dear and honored sir, 
your attached and most obedient servant, 

“Christopher Blount.” 


“ I shall learn all he knows in a few days. 
What is it that deprives me of quiet till a 
clue he found to the discovery of iTellaud 
Mace? And why is it that the fancy has 
seized me that Mr. Longcluse knows where 
that villain may be found? He admitted, 
in talking to Alice, she says, that he had 
seen him in his young days. I will pick up 
all the facts, and then consider well all that 
they may point to. Let us but get the letters 
together, and in time we may find out what 
they spell. Here am I, a rich but sad, old 
bachelor, having missed forever the best 
hope of my life. Poor Harry long dead, and 
but one branch of the old tree with fruit 
upon it — Reginald, with his two children: 
Richard, my nephew — Richard Arden, in a 
few years the sole representative of the old 
family of Arden, and he such a scamp 
and fool ! If a childless old fellow could 
care for such things, it would be enough to 
break my heart. And poor little Alice ! So^ 
affectionate and so beautiful, left, as she will 
be, alone, with such a protector as that fel- 
low ! I pity her.'’ 

At that moment her unopened note caught 
his eye, as it lay on the table. He opened 
it, and read these words : — 

“ Mt Dearest Uncle David. — I am so miserable and 
perplexed, and so utterly without any one to befriend or 
advise me in my present unexpected trouble, that I must 
implore of you to come to Mortlake, if you can, the mo- 
ment this note reaches you. I know how unreasonable 
and selfish this urgent request will appear. But w'hen I 
shall have told you all that has happened, you will say, I 
know, that I could not have avoided imploring your aid. 
Therefore, I entreat, distracted creature as I am, that you, 
my beloved uncle, will come to aid and counsel me ; and 
believe me when I assure you that I am in extreme dis- 
tress, and without, at this moment, any other friend to 
help me.— Your very unhappy Niece, Alice.” 

He read this short note over again. 

“ No : it is not a sick lap-dog, or a saucy 
maid ; there is some real trouble. Alice has, 
I think, more sense — I '11 go at once. Regi- 
nald is always late, and I shall find them " 
(he looked at his watch) — “yes, I shall find 
them still up at Mortlake." 

So instantly he sent for a cab, and pulled 
on again a pair of boots, instead of the slip- 
pers he had donned, and before five minutes 
was driving at a rapid pace toward Mortlake. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE REASON OF ALICE's NOTE. 

The long drive to Mortlake was expedited 
by promises to the cabman ; for, in this ac- 
quisitive world, nothing for nothing is the 
ruling law of reciprocity. It was about half- 
past eleven o'clock when they reached the 
gate of the avenue ; it was a still night, and 
a segment of the moon was high in the sky, 
faintly silvering the old fluted piers and urns. 


and the edges of the gigantic trees that over- 
hung them. 

They were now driving up the avenue. 
How odd was the transition from the glare 
and hurly-burly of the town to the shadowy 
and silent woodlands on which this imperfect 
light fell so picturesquely. 

There were associations enough to induce 
melancholy as he drove through those neg- 
lected scenes, his playground in boyish days, 
where he, and Harry whom he loved, had 
passed so many of the happy days that pre- 
cede school. He could hear his laugh float- 
ing still among the boughs of the familiar 
trees, he could see his handsome face smiling 
down through the leaves of the lordly chestnut 
that stood, at that moment, by the point of the 
avenue they were passing, like a forsaken old 
friend overlooking the way without a stir. 

“ I '11 follow this clue to the end," said 
David Arden. “ I shan't make much of it, I 
fear ; but if it ends, as others in the same in- 
quiry have, in smoke, I shall, at least, have 
done my utmost, and may abandon the task 
with a good grace, and conclude that Heaven 
declines to favor the pursuit. Taken for all 
in all, he was the best of his generation, and 
the fittest to lead the bouse. Something, I 
thought, was due, in mere respect to his 
memory. The coldness of Reginald insulted 
me. If a favorite dog had been poisoned, he 
would have made more exertion to commit 
the culprit. And once in pursuit of this dark 
shadow, how intense and direful grew the in- 
terest of the chase, and Here we are 

at the hall-door. Don't mind knocking, ring 
the bell," he said to the driver. 

He was himself at the threshold before the 
door was opened. 

“ Can I see my brother ? " he asked. 

“ Sir Reginald is in the drawing-room — a 
small dinner-party to-day, sir — Lady May 
Penrose and Lady Mary Maypol, they re- 
turned to town in Lady May Penrose's car- 
riage ; Lord Wynderbroke remains, sir, and 
two gentlemen ; they are at present with Sir 
Reginald in the smoking-room." 

He learned that Miss Arden was alone in 
a- small sitting-room, called the card-room. 

David Arden had walked through the ves- 
tibule and into the capacious hall. The 
lights were all out but one. 

“Well, I shan't disturb him. Is Miss 
Alice " 

“ Yes, Alice is here. It is so kind of you 
to come ! " said a voice he well knew. “ Here 
I am ! Won't you come up to the drawing- 
room, uncle David ? " 

“ So you want to consult uncle David," he 
said, entering the room and looking round. 
“ In my father's time the other drawing- 
rooms used to be open ; it is a handsome suite 
— very pretty rooms. But I think you have 
been crying, my poor little Alice. What on 
earth is ail this about, my dear ? Here I am, 
and it is past eleven ; so we must come to the 
point, if I am to hear it to-night. What is 
the matter?" * 


100 


CHECKMATE. 


“My dear uncle, I have been so miser- 
able!” 

“Well, what is it?”* he said, taking a 
chair; “you have refused some fellow you 
like, or accepted sorne fellow you donT like. 
I am sure you are at the bottom of your own 
misery, foolish little creature ! Girls gener- 
ally are, I think, the architects of their own 
penitentiaries. Sit there, my dear, and if it 
is anything I can be of the least use in, you 
can count on my doing my utmost. Only you 
must tell me the whole case, and you must n’t 
color it a bit.” 

So they sat down on a sofa, and Miss 
Alice told him in her own way that, to her 
amazement, that day Lord Wynderbroke had 
made something very like a confession of his 
passion, and an offer of his hand, which this 
unsophisticated young lady was on the point 
of repelling, when Lady May entered the 
room, accompanied by her friend, Lady Mary 
Maypol ; and, of course, the interesting sit- 
uation, for that time, dissolved. Abou^t an 
hour after, Alice, who was shocked at the 
sudden distinction of which she had become 
the object, and extremely vexed at the inter- 
ruption which had compelled her to suspend 
her reply, and very anxious for an opportu- 
nity to answer with decision, found that op- 
portunity in a little saunter which she and 
the two ladies took in the grounds, accompa- 
nied by Lord Wynderbroke and Sir Kegi- 
nald. 

When the opportunity came, with a com- 
mon inconsistency, she rather shrank from 
the crisis ; and a slight uncertainty as to the 
actual meaning of the noble lord, rendered 
her perplexity still more disagreeable. 

It occurred thus: the party had walked 
some little distance, when Alice was ad- 
dressed by her father — 

“Here is Wynderbroke, who says he has 
never seen my Roman inscription ! You, 
Alice, must do the honors, for I dare n’t yet 
venture on the grass ” — he shrugged, and 
shook his head over his foot — “and I will 
take charge of Lady Mary and Lady May, 
who want to see the Berkshire thistles — 
they have grown so enormous under my gar- 
dener’s care. You said. May, the other even- 
ing, that you would like to see them.” 

Lady May acquiesced with true feminine 
sympathy with the baronet’s stratagem, not- 
withstanding an imploring glance from Alice; 
and Lady Mary Maypol, exchanging a glance 
with Lady May, expressed equal interest in 
the Derbyshire thistles. 

“ You will find the inscription at the door 
of the grotto, only twenty steps from this ; it 
was dug up when my grandfather made the 
round pond, with the fountain in it. You ’ll 
find us in the garden.” 

Lord Wynderbroke beamed an insufferable 
smile on Alice, and said something pretty 
that she did not hear. 

She knew perfectly what was coming, and 
although resolved, she was yet in a state of 
extreme confusion. 


Lord Wynderbroke was talking all the way 
as they approached the grotto ; but not one 
word of his harmonious periods did she clearly 
hear. By the time they reached the little 
rocky arch under the evergreens, through 
the leases of which the marble tablet and 
Roman inscription were visible, they had 
each totally forgotten the antiquarian object 
with which they had set out. 

Lord Wynderbroke came to a stand-still, 
and then with a smiling precision and dis- 
tinctness, and in accents that seemed, some- 
how, to ring through her head, he made a 
very explicit declaration and proposal ; and 
duripg the entire delivery of this perform- 
ance, which was neat and lucid rather than 
impassioned, she remained tongue-tied, lis- 
tening as if to a tale told in a dream. 

She withdrew her hand hastily from Lord 
Wynderbroke’s tender pressure, and the 
young lady, with a sudden effort, replied col- 
lectedly enough, in a way greatly to amaze 
Lord Wynderbroke. 

When she had done, that nobleman was 
silent for some time, and stood in the same 
attitude of attention with which he had heard 
her. With a heightened color he cleared his 
voice, and his answer, when it came, was dry 
and pettish. He thought, with great defer- 
ence, that he was, perhaps, entitled to a lit- 
tle consideration, and it appeared to him that 
he had quite unaccountably misunderstood 
what had seemed the very distinct language 
of Sir Reginald. For the present he had no 
more to say. He hoped to explain more sat- 
isfactorily to Miss Arden, after he had him- 
self had a few words of explanation, to which 
he thought he had a claim, from Sir Regi- 
nald ; and he must confess that, after the 
lengths to which he had been induced to pro- 
ceed, he was quite taken by surprise, and irv- 
expressibly wounded by the tone which Miss 
Arden had adopted. 

Side by side, at a somewhat quick pace, 
Miss Arden with a heightened color, and 
Lord Wynderbroke w'ith his ears tingling, 
rejoined their friends. 

“Well, my dear child,” said uncle David, 
with a laugh, “ if j'ou have nothing worse to 
complain of, though I ’m very glad to see 
you, I think we might have put off our meet- 
ing till daylight.” 

“Oh! but you have not heard half what 
has happened. He has behaved in the most 
cowardly, treacherous, ungentleman - like 
way,” she continued, vehemently. “ Papa 
sent for me, and I never saw him so angry 
in my life. Lord Wynderbroke has been 
making his unmanly complaints to him, and 
papa spoke so violently ! And, Ac, instead 
of going away, having had from me the an- 
swer which nothing on earth shall ever in- 
duce me to change, he remains here; and 
actually had the audacity to tell me, very 
nearly in so many words, that my decision 
went for nothing. I spoke to him quite 
frankly, but said nothing that was at all rude 
— nothing that could have made him the 


CHECKMATE. 


101 


least angry. I implored of him to believe 
me, that I never could change my mind; and 
I could not help crying, I was so agitated and 
wretched. But he seemed very much vexed, 
and simply said that he placed himself en- 
tirely in papa’s hands. In fact, I ’ve been 
utterly miserable and terrified, and Fdo not 
know how I can endure these terrible scenes 
with piipa. The whole thing has come upon 
me so suddenly. Could you have imagined 
any gentleman capable of acting like Lord 
AVynderbroke — so selfish, cruel, and das- 
tardly ? ” and with these words she burst 
into tears. 

“ Do you mean to say that he won’t take 
your refusal?” said her uncle, looking very 
angry. 

“ That is what he says,” she sobbed. “ lie 
had' an opportunity only for a few words, 
and that was the purport of them ; and I was 
so astounded, I could not reply ; and, instead 
of going away, he remains here. Papa and 
he have arranged to prolong his visit ; so I 
shall be teased and frightened, and I am so 
nervous and agitated ; and it is such an out- 
rage ! ” 

“ Now, we must not lose our heads, my 
dear child ; we must consult calml3^ It seems 
you don’t think it possible that you may come 
to like Lord Wynderbroke sufficiently to mar- 
ry himi” 

“ I would rather die ! If this goes on, I 
shan’t stay here. I’d go and be a governess 
rather.” 

“ I think you might give my house a trial 
first,” said uncle David, merrily ; “ but it is 
time to talk about that by-and-by. What 
does May Penrose think of it? She some- 
times, I believe, on an emergency, lights on 
a sensible suggestion.” 

“ She had to return to town with Lady 
Mary, who dined here also ; I did not know 
she was going until a few minutes before they 
left. I ’ve been so miserably unlucky ! and 
I could not make an opportunity without its 
seeming so rude to Lady Mary, and I don’t 
know her well enough to tell her ; and, you 
have no idea, papa is so incensed, and so 
peremptory; and ‘what am I to do ? Oh, 
dear uncle! think of something. I know 
you ’ll help me.” 

“ That I will,” said the old gentleman. 
” But allowances are to be made for a poor 
old devil so much in love as Lord Wynder- 
broke.” 

“ I don’t think he likes me now — he can’t 
like me.” said Alice. “ But he is angry It 
is simply pride and vanity. From something 
papa said, I am sure of it, Lord Wynder- 
broke has been telling his friends, and speak- 
ing, I fancy, as if everything was arranged, 
and he never anticipated that I could have 
any mind of my own ; and I suppose he 
thinks he would be laughed at, and so I am 
to undergo a persecution, and he won’t hear 
of anything but what he pleases ; and papa 
is determined to accomplish it. And, oh 1 
what am I to do? ” 


“ I ’ll tell you, but you must do exactly as 
Ibid you. Who’s there?” he said, suddenly, 
as Alicie’s maid opened the door. 

“ Oh ! I beg pardon — Miss Alice, please,” 
she said, dropping a curtsey and drawing 
back. 

“ Don’t go,” said uncle David ; ” we shall 
want you. What ’s the matter ? ” 

“ Sir Reginald has been took bad with his 
foot again, please, miss.” 

“ Nothing serious?” said uncle David. 

“ Only pain, please, sir, in the same place.” 

“ All the better it should fix itself well in 
his foot. You need not be uneasy about it, 
Alice. You and your maid must be in my cab, 
which is at the hall-door, in five minutes. 
Take leave of no one, and don’t waste time 
over finery ; just put a few things into a car- 
pet-bag, and take your dressing-case ; and 
you and your maid are coming to town with 
me. Is my brother in the drawing-room ? ” 

‘‘No, sir, please ; he is in his own room.” 

“ Are the gentlemen who dined still here? ” 

“ Two left, sir, when Sir Reginald took ill ; 
but Lord AVynderbroke remains.” 

“ Oh 1 and where is he ? ” 

“ Sir Reginald sent for him, please, sir — 
just as I came up — to his room.” 

“ A^ery good, then I shall find them both 
together. Now, Alice, I must find you and 
your maid in the cab in five minutes. I 
shall get your leave from Reginald. Lose 
no time.” 

With this parting charge, uncle David ran 
down the stairs, and met Lord VV'ynderbroke 
at the foot of them, returning from his visit 
of charity to Sir Reginald’s room. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

COLLISION. 

“ Lord Wynderbroke !” said uncle David, 
and bowed rather ceremoniously. 

Lord Wynderbroke, a little surprised, ex- 
tended two fingers and said, “ How d ’ye do, 
Mr. Arden?” and smiled dryly, and then 
seemed disposed to pass on. 

“ I beg your pa;rdon, Lord Wynderbroke,” 
said David Arden, “ but would you mind 
giving me a few minutes? I have something 
you may think a little important to say, and 
if you will allow me, I ’ll say it in this room ” 
— he indicated the half-open door of the din- 
ing-room, in which there was still some 
light — “ I shall not detain you long.” 

The urbane and smiling peer looked on 
him for a moment — rather darkly — with a 
shrewd eye ; and he said, still smiling : 

“ Certainly, Mr. Arden ; but at this hour, 
and being about to write a note, you will 
see that I have very little time indeed — 
I’m very sorry.” 

He was speaking stiffly, and any one might 
have seen that he suspected nothing very 


102 


CHECKMATE. 


agreeable as the result of Mr. Arden’s com- 
munication. 

When they had got into the dining-room, 
and the door was closed, Lord Wynderbroke, 
with his head a little high, invited Mr. Ar- 
den to proceed. 

“ Then, as you are in a hurry, you T1 ex- 
cuse my going direct to the point. I ’ve come 
here in consequence of a note that reached 
me about an hour ago, informing me that 
my niece, Alice Arden, has suffered a great 
deal of annoyance. You know, of course, to 
what I refer.” 

“I should extremely regret that the young 
lady, your niece, should suffer the least vexa- 
tion, from any cause ; but I should have fan- 
cied that her happiness might be more natu- 
rally confided to the keeping of her father, 
than of a relation residing in a different 
house, and by no means so nearly interested 
in consulting it.” 

“ I see. Lord Wynderbroke, that I must 
address you very plainly, and even coarsely. 
My brother Reginald does not consult her 
happiness, in this matter, but merely his 
own ideas of a desirable family connection. 
She is really quite miserable ; she has unal- 
terably made up her mind. You ’ll not in- 
duce her to change it. There is no chance 
of that. But by permitting my brother to 
exercise a pressure in favor of your suit ” 

“You’ll excuse my interrupting for a mo- 
ment, to say that there is, and can be, noth- 
ing but the perfectly legitimate influence of 
a parent. Pressure, there is none — none in 
the world, sir ; although I am not, like you, 
Mr. Arden, a relation — and a very near one 
— of Sir Reginald Arden’s, I think I can 
undertake to say that he is quite incapable 
of exercising what you call a pressure upon 
the young lady his daughter ; and I have to 
beg that you will be so good as to spare me 
the pain of hearing that term employed, as 
you have just now employed it — or at all, 
sir, in connection with me. I take the lib- 
erty of insisting upon that, peremptorily.” 

Mr. Arden bowed, and went on : 

“ And when the young lady distinctly de- 
clines the honor you propose, you persist in 
paying your addresses, as though her answer 
meant just nothing.” 

“ I don’t qnite know, sir, why I ’ve listened 
so long to this kind of thing from you; you 
have no right on earth, sir, to address that 
sort of thing to me. How dare you talk to 
me, sir, -in that — a — a — audacious tone, 
upon my private affairs and conduct?” 

Uncle David was a little fiery, and an- 
swered, holding his head high : 

“ What I have to say is short and clear. 
I don’t care twopence about your affairs or 
your conduct, but I do very much care about 
my niece’s happiness; and if you any longer 
decline to take the answer she has given you, 
and continue to cause her the slightest 
trouble, I ’ll make it a personal matter with 
you. Good night ! ” he added, with an in- 
flamed visage, and a stamp on the floor. 


thundering his valediction like a denuncia- 
tion. 

And forth he went to pay his brief visit 
to his brother — not caring twopence, as he 
said, what Lord Wynderbroke thought of 
him. 

Sir Reginald had got into his dressing- 
gown. lie was not now in any pain to speak 
of, and expressed great surprise at the sud- 
den appearance of his brother. 

“ You ’ll take something, won’t you ? ” 

“Nothing, thanks,” answered David. “I 
came to beg a favor.” 

“ Oh ! did you ? You find me very poorly,” 
said the baronet, in a tone that seemed to 
imply, You might easily kill me, by impos- 
ing the least trouble just now. 

“You’ll be all the better, Reginald, for 
this little attack ; it is so comfortably estab- 
lished in your foot.” 

“ Comfortably ! I wish you felt it,” said 
Sir Reginald, sharply ; “ and it’s confound- 
edly late. Why did n’t you come to din- 
ner? ” 

David laughed good-humoredly. 

“ You forgot, I think, to ask me,” said he. 

“ Well, well I you know there is always a 
chair and a glass for you ; but won’t it do to 
talk about any cursed thing you wish to- 
morrow ? I — I never, by any chance, hear 
anything agreeable. I have been tortured out 
of my wits and senses, all day long, by a 
tissue of pig-headed, indescribable frenzy. 
I vow to Heaven there’s a conspiracy to 
drive me into a mad-house, or into my grave ; 
and I declare to my Maker, I wish, the first 
time I’m asleep, some fellow would come in, 
and blow my brains out on the pillow.” 

“I don’t know an easier death,” said 
David ; and his brother, who meant it to be 
terrific, did not pretend to hear him. “ I 
have only a word to say,” he continued, “ a 
request you have never refused to other 
friends, and in fact, dear Reginald, I ven- 
tured to take it for granted you would not 
refuse me ; so I have taken Alice into town, 
to make me a little visit of a day or two.” 

“You haven’t taken Alice — you don’t 
mean — she’s not gone f” exclaimed the 
baronet, sitting up with a sudden perpen- 
dicularity, and staring at his brother as if 
his eyes were about to leap from their sockets. 

“ I ’ll take the best care of her. Yes, she 
is gone,” said David. 

“ But, my dear, excellent, worthy — why, 
curse you, David, you can’t possibly have 
done anything so clumsy ! Why, you forgot 
that Wynderbroke is here ; hoAv oil earth am 
I to entertain Wynderbroke ivithout her ? ” 

“ Why, it is exactly because Lord Wynder- 
broke is here^ that I thought it the best time 
for her to make me a visit.” 

“I protest to Heaven, David, I believe 
you’re deranged! Do you the least knoiv 
what you are saying?” 

“ Perfectly. Now, my dear Reginald, let 
us look at the matter quietly. The girl did 
not like him ; she would not marry him, and 


CHECKMATE. 


10 ?, 


never will ; she has grovrn to hate him ; his 
own conduct has made her despise and detest 
him; and slie's not the kind of girl who 
would marry for a mere title. She has un- 
alterahly made up her mind ; and these are 
n(»t times when you can lock a young lady 
into her room, and starve her into compli- 
ance; and Alice is a spirited girl — all the 
women of our family were. You h-e no goose 
like Wynderbroke — you only need to know 
that the girl has quite made up her mind, 
or her heart, or her hatred, or whatever it 
is, and she won’t marry him. It is as well 
he should know it at first, as at last ; and I 
don’t think if he were a gentleman, peer 
though he be, he would have been in this 
house to-night. He counted on his title : he 
was too sure. I am very proud of Alice, 
and now he can’t bear the mortification — 
having, like a fool, disclosed his suit to 
others before it had succeeded — of letting 
the world know he has been refused ; and to 
this petty vanity he would sacrifice Alice ; 
and prevail on you, if he could, to bully her 
into accepting him — a plan in which, if he 
perseveres, I have told him he shall, besides 
failing ridiculously, give me a meeting ; for 
I will make it a personal quarrel with him.” 

Sir Reginald sat in his chair, looking very 
w'hite and wicked, with his eyes gleaming 
fire on his brother. lie opened his mouth 
once or twice to speak, but only drew a 
short breath at each attempt. 

David Arden rather wondered that his 
brother took all this so quietly. If he had 
olrserved him a little more closely, he would 


have seen that his hands wore trembling, 
and perceived also that he had tried re- 
peatedly to speak, and that either voice or 
articulation failed him. 

On a sudden he recovered, and regardless 
of his gout started to his feet, and limped 
along the floor, exclaiming: 

“Help us — help us — God help us! 
What’s this? My — my — oh, my God ! It’s 
very bad ! ” He was stumping round and 
round the table, near which he had sat, and 
restlessly shoving the pamphlets and books 
hither and thither as he went. “ What have 
I done to earn this curse? was ever mortal 
so pursued? The last thing, this was ; now 
all’s gone — quite gone — it’s over, quite. 
They ’ve done it — they ’ve done it. Bravo ! 
hravi tvtti ! hrava ! All — all, and every- 
thing gone 1 To think of her — only to think 
of her ! She was my^ pet.” (And in his 
bleak, trembling voice, he cried a horrid 
c'iirse at her.) “I tell you,” he screamed, 
dashing his hand on the table, at the other 
end of which he had arrested his monoto- 
nous shuffle round it, when his brother 
caught suddenly his vacant eye, “ you think, 
because I ’m down in the world, and you are 
prosperous, that you can do as you like. If 
I was where I should be, you dare n’t. I ’ll 
have her back, sir. I ’ll have the police 
with you. I’ll — I’ll indict you — it’s a 
police-office affair. sThey ’ll take her through 
the streets. Where’s the wretch like her? 
I charge her — let them take her by the 
shoulders. And my son, Richard — to think 
of him — the cursed puppy ! — his post-obit ! 



“ il.MtTIIA TANSEV CAME IN AM) I-E.N T HER AID.” 


104 


CHECKMATE. 


One foot in the grave, have I ? No, I ’m 
not 80 near smoked out as you take me — 
Pve a long time for it — I’ve a long life. 
I ’ll live to see him broken — without a eoat 
to his back — you- villanous, swindling dan- 
dy, and I’ll ” 

Ilis voice got husky, and he struck his 
thin list on the table, and clung to it, and 
the room was suddenly silent. 

David Arden rang the bell violently, and 
got his arm round his brother, who shook 
himself feebly, and shrugged, as if lie dis- 
dained and hated that support. 

In came Crozier, who looked aghast, but 
wheeled his easy chair close to where he 
stood, and between them they got him into 
it, trembling from head to foot. 

• Martha Tansey came in and lent her aid. 
and beckoning her to the door, David Arden 
asked her if she thought him very ill. 

“la seen him just so a dozen times over. 
He ’ll be well enough, soon, an’ if ye knew 
him as weel in they takin’s, ye ’d ho ’d wi’ 
me, there’s nothing more than common in ’t ; 
he’s a bit teathy and short-waisted, and 
always was, and that ’s how he works him- 
self into them fits.” 

So spoke Tansey, into whose talk, in mo- 
ments of excitement, returned something of 
her old north-country dialect. 

“ Well, so he was vexed with me, as with 
other people, and he was over-excited him- 
self ; but as he has this little gout about him, 
I may as well send out his docter as I re- 
turn.” 

This little conversation took place outside 
Sir Pteginald’s room-door, Avhich David did 
not care to re-enter, as his brother might 
have again become furious on seeing him. 

So he took his leave of Martha Tansey, 
and their whispered dialogue ended. One 
or two sighs and groans shoAved that Sir 
Reginald’s energies were returning. David 
Arden walked quickly across the vast hall, 
in which now burned duskily but a single 
candle, and let himself out into the clear, 
cold night; and as he walked down the 
broad avenue he congratulated himself on 
having cut the Gordian knot, and liberated 
his niece. 

It was a pleasant Avalk by the narroAv 
road, with its lofty-growing foliage, doAAm to 
the village outjAostof Islington, wdiere, under 
the shadoAv of the old church-spire, he found 
his cab waiting, with Alice and her maid 
in it. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

AN UNKNOWN FRIEND. 

As they drove into town, uncle David was 
thinking how aAvkAvard it would be if Sir 
Reginald should have recovered his activity, 
and despatched a messenger to recall Alice, 
and aAvait their arrival at his door. Well, 
he did not want a quarrel ; he hated a fra- 


cas ; l)ut he would not send Alice back till 
next morning, come w'hat might; and then 
he would return with her, and see Lord 
Wynderbroke again, and take measures to 
compel an immediate renunciation of his 
suit. As for Reginald, he would find argu- 
ments to reconcile him to the disappoint- 
ment. At all events, Alice had thrown 
herself upon his protection, and he would 
not surrender her except on terms. 

Uncle David Avas silent, having all this 
matter to ruminate upon. He left a pen- 
cilled line for Sir Henry Margate, his 
brother’s physician, and then drove on to- 
ward home. 

Turning into Saint James’s Street, Alice 
saw her brother standing at the side of a 
crossing, Avith a great-coat and a white 
mufiier on, the air being sharp. A couple 
of carriages drawn up near the pavement, 
and the passing of two or three others on the 
outside, for a moment checked their pro- 
gress, and Alice, had not the window been 
up, could have spoken to him as they passed. 
He did not see them, but the light of a lamp 
was on his face, and she was shocked to see 
how ill he looked. 

“ There is Dick,” she said, touching her 
uncle’s arm, “looking so miserable! Shall 
we speak to him ? ” 

“No, dear, neA’^er mind him — he’s well 
enough.” David Arden peeped at his nephew 
as they passed. “ He is beginning to take 
an interest in what real^ concerns him.” 

She looked at her un^e, not understand- 
ing his meaning. 

“ We can talk of it another time, dear,” 
he added, with a cautionary glance at the 
maid, who sat in the corner at the other side. 

Richard Arden was on his Avay to the 
place where he meant to recover his losses. 
He had been playing deep at Colonel Mar- 
ston’s lodgings, but not yet luckily. He 
thought he had used his credit there as far 
as he could successfully press it. 

The polite young men who had their sup- 
per there that night, and played after he 
left till nearly five o’clock in the morning, 
kneAv perfectly Avhat he had lost at the 
Derby ; but they did not know how perilous- 
ly, on the 'Whole, he was already inv^olved. 
Whxs Richard Arden, Avho had lost nearly 
seven hundred pounds at Colonel INIarston’s 
i little gathering, though he had not pahl 
them yet, noAV quite desperate? By no 
means. It is true he had, while Vandeleur 
was out, uiade an excursion to the city, and, 
on rather hard terms, secured a loan of three 
hundred pounds — a trifle which, if lindc 
favored, might groAv to a fortune ; but which, 
if it proved contrary, half an hour would see 
out. 

He had locked this up in his desk, as a 
reserA^e for ix theatre quite different from 
Marston’s little party ; and on his way to 
that more public and also more secret liaunt, 
he had called at his lodgings for it. It was 
not that small deposit that cheered him, but 


CHECKMATE. 


105 


a curious and unexpected little note which 
he found there. It presented by no means 
a gentlemanlike exterior. The hand was a 
round clerk’s-hand, with flourishing capitals, 
on an oblong blue envelope, with a vulgar 
little device. A dun, he took it to be ; and 
he was not immediately relieved when he 
read at the foot of it, “ Levi.^’ Then he 
glanced to the top, and read, “ Dear Sir.'' 

This easy form of address he read with 
proper disdain. 

“ I am instructed by a most respectable party who is 
desirous to assist you., to the figure of £1,000 or upwards, 
at nominal discounts, to meet you and ascertain your 
wishes thei'eupon, if possible to-night, lest you should 
sufl'er inconvenience. — Yours truly, 

“ISRAKL Lf.VI. 

“ P. S. — In furtherance ol the above, I shall be at Dig- 
num’s Divan, Strand, from 11 p. ji. to-night to 1 a. m.” 

Here then, at last, was a sail in sight! 

With this note in his pocket, he walked 
direct to the place of rendezvous, in the 
Strand. It was on his way that, unseen by 
him, his sister and his uncle had observed 
him on their drive to David Arden's house. 

There were two friends only whom he 
strongly suspected of this very well-timed 
interposition — there was Lady May Pen- 
rose, and there was uncle David. Lady May 
was rich, and quite capable of a generous 
sacriflce for him. Uncle David, also rich, 
would like to show an intimidating front, as 
he had done, but would hardly like to see 
him go to the wall. 

There was, I must confess, a -trifling bill 
due to Mr. Longcluse, who had kindly got 
or given him cash for it. It was something 
less than a hundred pounds — a mere noth- 
ing ; but in their altered relations, it would 
not do to permit any miscarriage of this 
particular bill. He might have risked it in 
the frenzy of play. But to stoop to ask 
quarter from Longcluse. was more than his 
pride could endure. No; nor would the 
humiliation avail to arrest the consequences 
of his neglect. In the general uneasiness 
and horror of his situation, this little point 
was itself a centre of towture, and now his 
unknown friend had come to the rescue, and 
in the golden sunshine of his promise, it, 
like a hundred minor troubles, was dissolving. 

In Pail Mall he jumped into a cab, feeling 
strangely like himseli again. The lights, 
the clubs, the well-known perspectives, the 
stars above him, and the gliding vehicles 
and figures that still peopled the streets had 
recovered their old cheery look ; he was 
again in the upper world, and his dream of 
misery had broken up and melted. 

Under the great colored lamp, yellow, 
crimson, and blue, that overhung the pave- 
ment, emblazoned on every side with trans- 
parent arabesques, and in gorgeous capitals 
proclaiming to all whom it might concern, 
“ Dignum’s Divan," he dismissed his cab, 
took his counter in the cigar shop, and en- 
tered the great rooms beyond. 

The first of these, as many of my readers 
remember, was as large as a good-sized 


Methodist chapel; and five billiard-tables, 
under a blaze of gas, kept the many-colored 
balls rolling, and the marker busy calling 
“ Blue on brown, and pink your player," 
and so forth ; and gentlemen young and old, 
Christians and Hebrews, in their shirt- 
sleeves, picked up shillings when they took 
“ lives," or knocked the butts of their cues 
fiercely on the floor when they unexpectedly 
lost them. 

Among a very motley crowd, Richard 
Arden slowly sauntering through the room 
f)und Mr. Levi, whose appearance he al- 
ready knew, having once or twice had occa- 
sion to consult him financially. Ilis play 
was over for the night. The slim little Jew, 
wnth black curly head, large fierce black 
eyes, and sullen mouth, stood with his hands 
in his pockets, gaping luridly over the table 
wdiere he had just, he observed to his friend 
Isaac Blumer, who did not care if he was 
hanged, “ losht sheven pound sheventeen, 
azh I 'm a shinner! " 

Mr. Levi saw Richard Arden approaching, 
and smiled on him with his wide show of 
white fangs. 

Richard Arden approached Mr. Levi wdth 
a grave and haughty face. Here, to be sure, 
was nothing but what Horace Walpole used 
t() call “ the mob." Not a human being 
whom he knew^ was in the room ; still he 
would have preferred seeing Mr. Levi at his 
office; and the audacity of his presuming to 
grin in that familiar fashion 1 He would 
have liked to fling one of the billiard-balls 
in his teeth. 

In a freezing tone, and with his head high, 
he said : 

“ I think you are Mr. Levi? " 

“ The shame," responded Levi, still smil- 
ing,“and 'owish Mr. Harden this hevening?" 

“ I had a note from you," said Arden, 
assin^ by Mr. Levi's' polite inquiry, “and 

should like to know if any of that money 
you spoke of may be made available to- 
night." 

“ Every shtiver," replied the Jew, cheer- 
fully. 

“ I can have it all? Well, this is rather 
a noisy place," hesitated Richard Arden, 
looking around him. 

“ I can get into Mishter Dignum's book- 
offish here, Mr. Harden, and it won't take a 
moment. I haven’t notes, but I '11 give you 
our cheques, and there 'sh no place in town 
they won’t go down as slick as gold, I ’ll 
fetch you to where there 's pen and ink." 

“ Do so," said he. 

In a very small room, where burned a 
single jet of gas, Mr. Arden signed a prom- 
issory note at three months for £1,012 lOi'., 
for which Mr. Levi handed him cheques of 
his firm for £1,000. 

Having exchanged these securities, Rich- 
ard Arden said : 

“ I wish to put one or two questions to 
you, Mr. Levi." He glanced at a clerk ayIio 
was making “ tots " from a huge folio be- 


106 


CHECKMATE. 


fore him, on a slip of paper, and transfer- 
ring them to a small book, with great in- 
dustry. 

Levi understood him, and beckoned in 
silence, and when they both stood in the 
passage he said : 

“If you want a word private with me, 
Mr. Harden, where there ’sh no one can 
shee us, you Tl be as private as the deshert 
of Ilarabia if you walk round the corner of 
the street.'' 

Arden nodded, and walked out into the 
Strand, accompanied by Mr. Levi. They 
turned to the left, and a few steps brought 
them to the corner of Cecil Street. 

The street widens a little after you pass 
its narrow entrance. It was still enough 
to justify Mr. Levi's sublime comparison. 
The moon shone mistily on the river, which 
was dotted and streaked at its further edge 
with occasional lights from windows, re- 
lieved by the black rejected outline of the 
buildings which made their back-ground. 
At the foot of the street, at that time, stood 
a clumsy rail, and Richard Arden leaned his 
arm on this, as he talked to the Jew, who 
had pulled his short cloak about him ; and 
in the faint light he could not discern his 
feature.s, near as he stood, except, now and 
then, his white eye-balls, faintly, as he 
turned, or his teeth when he smiled. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

BY THE RIVER. 

“You mentioned, Mr. Levi, in ^^our note, 
that you were instructed by some person 
who takes an interest in me to open this 
business," said Richard Arden, in a more 
conciliatory tone. “Will your instructions 
permit you to tell me who that person is ? " 

“No, no," drawled Mr. Levi, with a slow 
shake of his head ; “ I declare to you 
sholemnly, Mr. Harden, I could n't. I 'm 
employed by a third party, and though I 
may make a tolerable near guess who 's 
firsht fiddle in the bishness, I can't shay 
nothin.' " 

“ Surely you can say this — it is hardly a 
question, I am so sure of it — is the friend 
who lends this money a gentleman?", 

“I think the pershon as makesh the ad- 
vanshe is a bit of a shwell. There, now, 
that'sh enough." 

“ But I said a gentleman” persisted Ar- 
den. 

“ You mean to ask, hash n't a lady got 
nothing to do with it? " « 

“ M'ell, suppose I do ? " 

Mr. Levi shook his head slowly, and all 
his white teeth showed dimly, as he answered 
with an unctuous significance that tempted 
Arden strongly to knock him down: 

“ We puts the ladiesh first ; ladiesh and 
shentlemen, that's the way it goes at the 


theaytre ; if a good-looking chap 's a bit in a 
fix, there 'sh no one like a lady to pull him 
through." 

“I really want to know," said Richard 
Arden, with dilficultv restraining his fury. 
“ I have some relations who are likely 
enough to give me a lift of this kind ; some 
are ladies, and some gentlemen, and I have 
a right to know to whom I owe this money." 

“ To our firm ; who elshe? We have took 
your paper at three months, and you have 
our cheques on Childs'. " 

Yonr firm lend money at five per cent. ! " 
said Arden, with contempt. “You forget, 
Mr. Levi, you mentioned in your note, dis- 
tirtctly, that you act for another person. 
Wlu) in that princiyjal for whom you act?" 

“ I don't know." 

“ Cume, Mr. Levi ! you are no simpleton ; 
you may as well tell me — no one shall be a 
bit the wiser — for I will know." 

“ Azh J 'm a shinner — azh I hope to be 
shaved — " began Mr. Levi. 

“ It won't do — you may just as well tell 
me — out with it ! " 

“ AVell, here now : I donH know, but if I 
did, upon my shoul, I wouldn 't tell you." 

“ It is pleasant to meet with so much sen- 
sitive honor, Mr. Levi," said Richard Arden, 
very scornfully. “ I have nothing particu- 
lar to say, only that your firm were mistaken, 
a little time ago, when they thought that I 
was without resources: I've friends, you 
now perceive, who only need to learn that I 
want money, to volunteer assistance. Have 
you anything more to say ? " 

Richard Arden saw the little Jew's fine 
fangs again displayed in the faint light, as 
he thus spoke ; but it was only prudent to 
keep his temper with this lucky intervenient. 

“ I have nothing to shay, Mr. Harden, 
only there 'sh more where that came from, 
and I may tell you sho, for that'sh no she- 
cret. But don't you go too fasht, young 
gentleman — not that you w^on't get it — but 
don't you go too fasht." 

“ If I should e^er 'ask your advice, it will 
be upon other things. I 'm giving the lend- 
er as good security as I have given to any 
one else. I don't see any great wonder in 
the matter. Good night," he said, haughtilv, 
not taking the trouble to look over his 
shoulder as he walked away. 

“ Good night," responded Mr. Levi, taking 
one of Dignum's cigars from his waistcoat- 
pocket, and preparing to light it with a lazy 
grin, “ and take care of yourshelf for my 
shake, do, and don't you be lettin' all them 
fine women be throw! n' their fortunes like 
that into your hat, andbringin' themshelves 
to the workus, for love of your pretty fashe 
— poor, dear, love-sick little fools! There 
you go, right off to Mallet and Turner's, I 
dare shay, and good luck attend you, for a 
reglar lady-killin’, 'ansome, sweet-spoken, 
broken-down jackass 1 " 

And at this period of his valediction the 
vesuvian was applied to his cigar, and 


107 


C H E C E 

Richard Arden escaped the remainder of ! 
his iron^ as the Jew, with his hands in his 
pockets, sauntered up the quiet street, in 
the direction in which Richard Arden had 
just disappeared. 

It seemed to that young gentleman that 
his supplies, no less than thirteen hundred 
pounds, would all but command the luck of 
which, as his spirits rose, he began to feel 
confident. “Fellows,’’ he thougl)t, “who 
have gone in with less than fifty, have come 
out to my knowledge with thousands ; and 
if less than fifty could do that, what m ight 
not be expected from thirteen hundred? ” 

He picked up a cab. Never did lover fly 
more impatiently to the feet of mistress than 
Richard Arden did, that night, to the shrine 
of the goddess whom he worshipned 

The muttered scoffs, the daik'fierv gaze, 
the glimmering teeth of'this mocking.^ ma- 
licious little Jew, represented an influence 
that followed Richard Arden that night. 


CHAPTER XLVni. 

SUDDEN NEWS. 

What Is luck ? Is there such an influence ? 
What type of mind rejects altogether, and 
consistently, this law or power? Call it by 
what name you will, fate or fortune, did not 
Napoleon, the man of deatli and of action, 
and did not Swedenborg, the ritan^of quie- 
tude and visions, acknowledge it ? Where 
is the successful gamester who does not 
“ back his luck,” when once it has declared 
itself, and bow before the storms of fortune 
when they in turn have set in ? I take Na- 
poleon and Swedenborg — the man of this 
visible world and the man of the invisible 
world — as the representatives of extreme 
types of mind. People who have looked 
into Swedenborg’s works will remember cu- 
rious passages on the subject, and find more 
dogmatical and less metapjiysical admissions 
in Napoleon’s conversations everywhere. 

In corroboration of this theory, that luck 
is an element, with its floods and ebbs, 
against which it is fatuity to contend, was 
the result of Richard Arden’s play. 

Before half-past two, he had lost every 
guinea of his treasure. He had been drink- 
ing champagne. He was flushed, dismal, 
profoundly angry. Hot and headachy, he 
was ready to choke with gall. There was 
a big, red-headed, vulgar fellow beside him, 
with a broad-brimmed white hat, who was 
stuffing his pockets and piling the table be- 
fore him, as though he had found the se- 
cret of an “ open sesame,” and was helping 
himself from the sacks of the Forty Thieves. 

When Richard had lost his last pound, he 
would have liked to smash the gas-lamps 
and windows, and the white, hat and the 
red head in it, and roar the blasphemy that 
rose to his lips. But men can’t afford to 


MATE. 

make themselves ridiculous, and ns he turned 
about to make his unnoticed exit he saw the 
little Jew, munching a sandwich, with a 
glass of champagne beside him. 

“ I say,” said^Richard Arden, walking up 
to the little man, whose big mouth was full 
of sandwich, and whose fierce black eyes 
encountered his instantaneously, “ you doji’t 
happen to have a little more, on the same 
terms, about you ? ” 

Mr. Levi waited to bolt his sandwich, and 
then swallow down his champajine. 

“ Shave mo ! ” exclaimed he, when this 
was done. “ The thoushand gone ! every 
rag! and (glancing at his watch) only two 
t\venty-five ! Won’t it be rather young, 
though, backin’ such a run o’ bad luck, and 
throwin’ good money after bad, Mr. Har- 
den ? ” 

“ That’s my affair, I fancy ; what I want 
to know is whether you have got a few hun- 
dreds more, on the same terms — I mean, 
from the same lender. Hang it, say yes or 
no — can’t you ? ” 

“ Well, Mr. Harden, there ’s five hundred 
more — but ’t was n ’t expected you ’d a’ drew 
it so soon. How much do you say, Mr. 
Harden ? ” 

“ I ’ll take it all,” said Richaxd Arden. 
“ I wish I could have it without these black- 
guards seeing.” 

“ They don’t care, blesh ye ! if you got it 
from the old boy himself. That is a rum 
un ! ” There were pen and ink on a small 
table beside the wall, at which Mr. Levi 
began rapidly to fill in the blanks of a bill of 
exchange. “ Why, there ’s not one o’ them 
almost, but takes a hundred now and then 
from me, when they runs out a bit too fast. 
You ’d better shay two months.” 

“Say three, like the other, and don’t keep 
me waiting.” 

“You’d better shay two — your friend 
will think you’re going a bit too quick to 
the devil. Remember, as your proverb shays, 
’tain’t the thing to kill the gooshe that laysh 
the golden eggs — shay two months.” 

Levi’s large black eye was fixed on him, 
and he added, “If you want it pushed on a 
bit when it comes due, there won’t be no 
great trouble about it, I calculate.” 

Richard Arden looked at the large fierce 
eyes that were silently fixed on him: one 
of those eyes winked solemnly and signifi- 
cantly. 

“ W ell, what way you like, only be quick,” 
said Richard Arden. 

His new sheaf of cheques were quickly 
turned into counters; and after various fluc- 
tuations these counters followed the rest, 
and in the gray morning he left that haunt 
jaded and savage, with just fifteen pounds 
in his pocket, the wreck of the large sum 
which he had borrowed to restore his for- 
tunes. 

It needs some little time to enable a man 
who has sustained such a shock as Richard 
Arden had, to collect his thoughts and define 


\ 


108 


CHECKMATE. 


the magnitude of his calamity. He let him- 
self in by a latch-key: the gray light was 
streaming through the shutters, and turning 
the chintz pattern of his window-curtains 
here and there, in streaks, into transparen- 
cies. He went into his room and swallowed 
nearly a tumblerful of brandy, then threw 
off his clothes, drank some more, and fell 
into a flushed stupor, rather than a sleep, 
and lay for hours as still as any dead man 
on the field of battle. 

Some four hours of this lethargy, and he 
became conscious at intervals of a sound of 
footsteps in his room. The shutters were 
still closed. He thought he heard a voice 
say, “Master Richard ! ’’but he was too 
drowsy, still, to rouse himself. 

At length a hand was laid upon him, and 
a voice that was familiar to his ear repeated 
twice over, more urgently, “ Master Richard ! 
Master Richard ! ” 

He was now awake : very dimly, by his 
bedside, he saw a figure standing. Again 
he heard the same words, and wondered for 
a few seconds where he was. 

“ 'I'hat ’s Crozier talking ? ” said Richard. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Crozier, in a low tone ; 
“I ’m here half an hour, sir, waiting till you 
should wake.” 

“ Let in some light ; I can’t see you.” 

Crozier opened half the window-shutter 
and drew the curtain. 

“Are ye ailin’. Master Richard — are ve 
bad, sir ? ” 

“Ailing — yes, I’m bad enough, as you 
say — I ’m miserable. I don’t know where 
to turn or what to do. Hold my coat while 
I count what ’s in the pocket. If my father, 
the old scoundrel ” 

“For God’s sake. Master Ivichard, don’t 
ye say the like o’ that no more; all ’s over, 
this morning, wi’ the old master — Sir Regi- 
nald’s dead, sir.” 

“ Good God ! ” cried Richard, starting up 
in his bed and staring at old Crozier, with a 
frightened look. 

“ Ay, sir,” said the old servant, in a low 
stern tone, “ he ’s gone at last : he was took 
just a quarter past five this mornin’, by the 
clock at Mortlake, about four minutes before 
St. Paul’s chimed the quarter. The wind 
being southerly, we heard the chimes out 
there betimes. We thought he was all right, 
and I did not leave him until half-past 
tw'elve o’clock, having given him his drops, 
and waited till he went asleep. It was 
about three he rang his bell, and in I goes 
that minute, and finds him sitting up in his 
bed, talking quite silly like, about old Wain- 
bridge the gToom, that’s dead and buried, 
away in Skarkwynd churchyard, these thir- 
ty year.” 

Crozier paused here. He had been crying 
hours ago, and his eyes and nose still showed 
evidences of that unbecoming weakness. 

Perhaps he expected Richard, now Sir 
Richard Arden, to say something, but noth- 
ing came. 


“ ’Tis a great change, sir, and I feel a bit 
queer, half a-dreamin’ ; and as I was sayin’, 
when I went in, nothin’ could get it out of 
his head but he saw Tom Wainbridge leadin’ 
a horse saddled and all into the room, and 
standin’ by the side of his bed, with the 
bridle in his hand, and holdin’ the stirrup 
for him to mount. ‘And what the devil 
brings Wainbridge here, when he has his 
business to mind in Yorkshire? and where 
could he find a horse like that? no one ever 
saw such a beast. He ’s waiting for me ; I can 
hear the roarin’ brute snorting, and I see 
old Tom’s parchment face lookin’ in at the 
door — there,’ he’d say, there — where 
are your eyes, Crozier, can’t you see, man ? 
Don’t be afraid — can’t you look — and his 
old foolish talk, don’t you hear him? Wain- 
bridge’s old nonsense, don’t you hear? A 
daft nag it is, and mad to be awa’ wi the 
squire.’ And he’d laugh a bit to himself,’ 
every now and again, and then he ’d whisper 
to me, looking a bit frightened, ‘Get him 
away, Crozier, will y^u? lie’s annoying 
me. he’ll have me out in spite of myself, 
and this sort o’ talk he went on wi’ for full 
twenty minutes. I rang the bell to Mrs. 
Tansey’s room, and when she was come we 
agreed to send in the brougham for the doc- 
tor. I think he was a bit wrong i’ the gar- 
rets, and we were both afraid to let it ):>€ no 
longer.” 

Crozier paused for a moment, and shook 
his head. 

“ We thought he was goin’ asleep, but he 
wasn’t. His eyes was half shut, and his 
shoulders .against the pillows, and Mrs. 
T.ansey was drawl n’ the eider-down coverlet 
over his feet, softly, when all on a sudden — 
I thought he vvas laughin’ — a noise like a 
little flyrin’ laugh, and then a long, fright- 
ful yellock, that would make your heart 
tremble, and awa’ wi’ him into one o’ them 
fits, and so from one into another, until when 
the doctor came he said he was in an apo- 
plexy ; and so, at just a quarter past five, 
the auld master went. And I came in to 
tell you, sir ; and have you any orders to 
give me. Master Richard ? and I ’m going 
on, I take it you ’d wish me, to your uncle, 
Mr. David, and little Miss Alice, that hain’t 
heard nout o’ the matter yet.” 

“ Yes, Crozier, go,” said Richard Arden, 
in a tone hardly audible, and staring on him 
as if his soul was in his eyes ; and, after a 
pause, with an effort, he added: 

“ I’ll call there as I go out to Mortlake; 
tell them I’ll see them on my way.” 

When Crozier had gone, Richard Arden 
got up, threw his dressing gown about him, 
and sat on the side of his bed. A sudden 
gush of tears relieved the strange conflict of 
feelings at his heart. 

Then came others less unselfish. He 
dressed hastily. He was too much excited 
to make a breakfast, lie drank a cup of 
coffee, and drove to uncle David’s house. 


V. 


CHECKMATE. 


109 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

PROMISES FOR THE FUTURE. 

As he drove to his uncle’s house, he was 
tumbling over facts and figures, in the en- 
deavor to arrive at some conclusion as to how 
he stood in the balance-sheet that must now 
bo worked out. 

What a thing that post-obit had turned 
out ! Those cursed Jews who had dealt with 
him must have known ever so much more 
about his poor father’s health than he did. 
They are such fellows to w’’orin out the se- 
crets of a family — all through one’s own 
servants, and doctors, and apothecaries. 
The spies! They stick at nothing — such 
liars ! How they pretended to wish to be 
off! What torture they kept him in ! How 
they talked of the old man’s nervous fibre, 
and pretended to think he would live for 
twenty years to come ! 

“And the deed was not six weeks signed 
when I found out he had those epileptic fits, 
and they knew it, the wretches — and so 
I ’ve been hit for that huge sum of money. 
And there is interest, two years’ nearly on 
that other charge, and that swindle that 
half ruined me on the Derby. And there 
are those bills that Levi has got ; but that is 
only fifteen hundred, and I can manage that 
any time, and a few other trifles.” 

And he thought what yeoman’s service 
Longcluse might and would have rendered 
him in this situation. How tmnslucent the 
whole opaque complexity would have become 
in an hour or two, and at what easy interest 
he would have procured him funds to adjust 
these complications! But here, too, fortune 
had dealt maliciously. What a piece of 
cross-grained luck that Longcluse should 
have chosen to fall in love with Alice ! 

And now they two had exchanged, not 
shots, but insults, harder to forgive. And that 
officious fool, Vandeleur, had laid him open 
to a more direct and humiliating affront than 
had before befallen him. Henceforward, 
between him and Longcluse no reconciliation 
w^as possible. 

Fiery and proud by nature was this Rich- 
ard Arden, and resentful. In Yorkshire, the 
family had been accounted a vindictive race. 
I don’t know. I have only to do with those 
inheritors of the name who figure in this 
story. 

Yes, Longcluse’s masterly finance would 
have made all straight. But of Longcluse* a 
fiery scorn, apd something very like hatred, 
now possessed him. To seem to wish that 
he might be beholden to him, even in thought, 
for the smallest favor, would have been tor- 
ture. 

There remained an able accountant and 
influential man on ’Change, on whose services 
he might implicitly reckon — his uncle, David 
Arden. But he was separated from him by 
the undefinable chasm of years — the want 
of sympathy, the sense of authority. He 


would take not only the management of this 
financial adjustment, but the carriage of the 
future of this young, handsome, full-blooded 
fellow, who had certainly no wish to take 
unto himself a Mentor. 

Here have been projected on this page, as 
in the disk of an oxy-hydrogen microscope, 
some of the small and active thoughts that 
swarmed almost unsuspected in Richard 
Arden’s mind. But it would be injustice to 
Sir Richard Arden (we may as well let him 
enjoy, while he may, the title which stately 
Death has just presented him with — it seems 
to me a mocking obeisance) to pretend that 
higher and kinder feelings had no place in 
his heart. 

Suddenly redeemed from ruin, suddenly 
smitten by an awful spectacle, a disturbance 
of old associations where there had once 
been kindness, where estrangements and 
enmity had succeeded : there was in all this 
something moving and agitating, that stirred 
his affections strangely when he saw his 
sister. 

David Arden had left his house an hour 
before the news reached its inmates. Sir 
Richard was shown to the drawing-room, 
where there was no one to receive him ; and 
in a minute Alice, looking very pale and 
miserable, entered, and running up to him, 
without saying a word, threw her arms about 
his neck and sobbed piteously. 

Her brother was moved. He folded her 
to his heart. Broken and hurried words of 
tenderness and affection he spoke, as he 
kissed her again and again. Henceforward 
he would live a better and wiser life. He 
had tasted the dangers and miseries that 
attend on play. He swore he would give it 
up. He had done with the follies of his 
youth. But for years he had not had a 
home. He was thrown into the thick of 
temptation. A fellow who had no home was 
so likely to amuse himself with play ; and 
he had suffered enough to make him hate it, 
and she should see what a brother he would 
be, henceforward, to her. 

Alice’s heart was bursting with self-re- 
proach ; she told Richard the whole story 
of her trouble of the day before, and the 
circumstance of her departure from Mort- 
lake, all in an agony of tears ; and declared, 
as young ladies often have done before, that 
she never could be happy again. 

He was disappointed, but generous and 
gentle feelings had been stirred within him. 

“ Don’t reproach yourself, darling ; that 
is mere folly. The entire responsibility of 
your leaving Mortlake belongs to my uncle ; 
and about Wynderbroke, you must not tor- 
ment yourself ; you had a right to a voice 
in the matter surely, and I dare say you 
would not be happier now if you had^ been 
less decided, and found yourself at this mo- 
ment committed to marry him. I have more 
reason to upbraid myself; but I’m sure I 
w'as right, though I sometimes lost my tem- 
per ; I know my uncle David thinks I was 


110 


CHECKMATE. 


right; but there is no use now in thinking 
more about it ; right or wrong, it is all over, 
arid I won’t distract myself uselessly. I ’ll 
try to be a better brother to you than I ever 
have been ; and I ’ll make Mortlake our 
head-quarters; or we’ll live, if you like it 
better, at Arden Manor, or I ’ll go abroad 
with you. I’ll lay myself out to make you 
happy. One thing I’m resolved on, and 
that is to give up play, and find some manly 
and useful pursuit; and you’ll see I ’ll do 
you some credit yet, or at least, as a country 
squire, do some little good and be not quite 
useless in my generation ; and I ’ll do my 
best, dear Alice, to make you a happy home, 
and to be all that I ought to be to you, my 
darling.” 

Very afiectionately he both spoke and 
felt, and left Alice with some of her anxie- 
ties lightened, and already more interest in 
the future than she had thought possible an 
hour before. 

Richard Arden had a good deal upon his 
hands that morning. He had money lia- 
bilities that were urgent. He had to catch 
his friend Mardykes at his lodgings, and get 
him to see the people in whose betting-books 
he stood for large figures, to represent to 
them what had happened, and assure them 
that a few daj’s should see all settled. Then 
he had to go to the office of his father’s 
attorney, and learn whether a will was 
forthcoming ; then to consult with his own 
attorney, and finally to follow his uncle, 
David Arden, from place to place, and find 
him at last, at home, and talk over details, 
and advise with him generally about many 
things, but particularly about the further 
dispositions respecting the funeral; for a 
little note from his uncle David had offered 
to relieve him of the direction of those hate- 
ful details transacted with the undertaker, 
which every one is glad to depute. 


CHAPTER L. 

UNCLE David’s suspicions. 

Mr. David Arden, therefore, had made a 
call at the office of Paller, Crapely and Co., 
eminent undertakers in the most gentleman- 
like and, indeed, aristocratic line of busi- 
ness, with immense resources at command, 
and who would undertake to bury a duke, 
with all the necessary draperies, properties, 
and dramatis personae, if required, before 
his grace was cold in his bed. 

A little ditllogue occurred here, which 
highly interested uncle David. 

A stout gentleman, with a fat, muddy, 
and melancholy countenance, and a sad 
suavity of manner, and in the perennial 
mourning that belongs to gentlemen of his 
doleful profession, presents himself to David 
Arden, to receive his instructions respecting 
the deceased baronet’s obsequies. The top 


of his head is bald, his face is furrowed and 
baggy ; he looks fully sixty-five, and he an- 
nounces himself as the junior partner, 
Plumes by name. 

Having made his suggestions and his 
notes, and taken his order for a strictly pri- 
vate funeral in the neighborhood of London, 
Mr. Plumes thoughtfully observes that he 
remembers the name well, having been 
similarly employed for another member of 
the fnmily. 

” Ah ! How was that? How long ago?’* 
asked Mr. Arden. 

“ Alxjut twenty years, sir.” 

“ And where was that funeral?” 

“The same place, sir — Mortlake.” 

‘‘ Yes, I know that was ? ” 

“It was Mr. ’Enry, or, rayther’ ’Arry 
Harden. We ’ad to take back the plate, 
sir, and change ’Enry to ’Ariw — ’Arry be- 
ing the name he was baptized by. There 
was a hinquest connected with that border.” 

So there was, Mr. Plumes,” said uncle 
David, with awakened interest, for that gen- 
tleman spoke as if he had something more 
to say on the subject. 

“There was, sir; and it affected me 
wery sensibly. My niece, sir, had a wery 
narrow escape.” 

“Your niece! Really? How could that 
be?” - 

“ There was a Mister Yelland Mace, sir, 
who paid his haddresses to her, and I do be- 
lieve, sir, she rayther liked him. I don’t 
know, I ’ra sure, whether he was serious in 
’is haddresses, but it looked very like as if 
he meant to speak ; though I do suppose he 
was looking ’igher for a wife. Well, he was 
believed to ’ave ’ad an ’and, sir, in that 
’orrible business.” 

“ I know — so he undoubtedly had — and 
the poor young lady, I suppose, was greatly 
shocked and distressed.” 

“ Yes, sir; and she died about a year after.” 

David Arden expressed his regret, and 
then he asked : 

“ You have often seen that man, Yelland 
Mace?” 

“ Not often, sir.” 

“You remember his face pretty well, I 
dare say ? ” 

“ Well, no, sir, not very well. It is alon*’' 
time.” ” 

“ Do you recollect whether there was any- 
thing noticeable in his features? — had he, 
for instance, a remarkably prominent nose ? ” 

“ I don’t remember that he ’ad, sir. I 
rather think not, but I can’t by no means 
say for certain. It is a long time, and I 
’ave n’t much of a memory for faces. There 
is a likeness of him among my poor niece’s 
letters.” 

“ Really ? I should be so much obliged if 
you would allow me to see it” 

“ It is at ’ome, sir ; but I shall be ’ome to 
dinner before I go hout to Mortlake ; and, 
if you please, I shall horror it of my sister, 
and take it with me.” 


C H E C Iv M A T E. 


Ill 


This offer David Arden glaiJly accepted. 

When the events were recent, he could 
have had nodifficulty in identifying Yelland 
Mace, by the evidence of fifty witnesses, if 
necessary. But it was another thing now. 
The lapse of time had made matters very 
different. It was recent impressions of a 
vague kind about Mr. Longcluse that had 
revived the idea, and prompted a renewal of 
the search. Martha Tausey was aged now, 
and he had misgivings about the accuracy 
of her recollection. Was it possible, after 
all, that he was about to see that which 
would corroborate his first vague suspicions ? 

Sir Richard had a busy and rather harass- 
ing day, the first of his succession to an 
old title and a new authority, and he was 
not sorry when it closed, lie had stolen 
about from place to place in a hired cab, 
and leaned back to avoid a chance recogni- 
tion, like an absconding creditor; and had 
talked with the people whom he was obliged 
to call on and see, in low and hurried collo- 
quy, through the window of the cab. And 
now night had fallen, the lamps were glar- 
ing, ami, tired enough, he returned to his 
lodgings, sent for his tailor, and arranged 
promyuly about the 

“ floak, pood radthcr, 

Ami customary suits of solemn black ; ” 

and that done, he wrote two or three notes 
to kindred in Yorkshire, with whom it be- 
hoved him to stand on good terms ; and then 
he determined to drive out to Mortlake Hall. 
An unpleasant mixture of feelings was in 


his mind as he thought of that visit, and the 
cold tenant of the ancestral house, whom, in 
the grim dignity of death, it would not have 
been seemly to leave for a W'hole day and 
night unvisited. 

It was to him a repulsive visit; but how 
could he postpone it? 

Belndd him, then, leaning back in his 
cab, and driving through glaring lamps, 
and dingy shops, and narrow, ill-thriven 
streets, ea.stward and northward ; and now, 
through the little antique village, with trem- 
bling lights, and by the faded splendors of 
the “ Guy of Warwick.” And he sat up and 
looked out of the window, as they entered 
the narrow road that is darkened by the tall 
overhanging timber of Mortlake grounds. 

Now they are driving up the broad avenue, 
with its noble old trees clumped at either 
side; and with a shudder Sir Richard Ar- 
den leans back, and moves no more until 
the cab pulls up at the door-steps, and the 
knock sounds through hall and passages, 
which he dared not so have disturbed, unin- 
vited, a day or two before. 

Crozier i-au down the steps to greet Mas- 
ter Richard. 

“How are you, old Crozier?” he said, 
shaking bands from the cab-window, for 
sumehow he liked to postpone entering the 
bouse as long as he could. “ I could not 
coim* earlier. I have been detained in town 
all day l>y btjsiness. of various kinds, con- 
nected with this.” And he moved his hand 
toward the open hall-door, wdth a gloomy 
n.td or two. 




112 


CHECKMATE. 


“ ITow is Martha? ” 

“Tolerable, sir, thank ye, considerin’. It’s 
a gireat up-set to her.” 

‘‘Yes, poor thing, of course. And has 
Mr. Paller been here — the person who is to 
— to ” 

“ The undertaker ? Yes, sir ; he was here 
at two o’clock, and some of the people has 
been busy in the room, and his men has 
come out again with the coffin, sir. I think 
they ’ll soon be leaving ; they ’ve been here 
a quarter of an hour, and — if I may make 
bold to ask, sir — what day will the'funeral 
be ? ” 

, “ I don’t know myself, Crozier ; I must 
settle that with my uncle. He said he 
thought he would come here himself this 
evening, at about nine, and it must be very 
near that now. Where is Martha ? ” 

“ In her room, sir, I think.” 

“ I won’t see her there. Ask her to come 
to the oak-room.” 

Richard got out, and entered the house of 
which he was now the master, with an op- 
pressive misgiving for which he could not 
account. 

The oak-parlor was a fine old room, and 
into the panels were let four full-length por- 
traits. Two of these were a lady and gen- 
tleman, in the costume of the beginning of 
Charles the Second’s reign. The lady held 
an Italian greyhound by a blue ribbon, and 
the gentleman stood booted for the field, and 
falcon on fist. It struck Richard, for the 
first time, how wonderfully like Alice that 
portrait of the beautiful lady was. 

lie raised the candle to examine it. There 
was a story about this lady. She had been 
compelled to marry the companion portrait, 
with the hawk on his hand, and those beau- 
tiful lips had dropped a curse, in her de- 
spair, when she was dying, childless, and 
wild with grief She prayed that no daughter 
of the hoiKse of Arden might ever wed the 
man of her love, and it was said that a fa- 
tality had pursued the ladies of that family, 
which looked like the accomplishment of the 
malediction ; and a great deal of curious 
family lore was connected with this legend 
and portrait. 

As he held the candle up to this picture, 
still scanning its features, the door slowly 
opened, and Martha Tansey, arrayed in a 
black silk dress of a fashion some twenty 
years out of date, came ini He set down the 
candle, and took the old woman’s hand, and 
greeted her very kindly- 

“ How’s a’ wi’ you. Master Richard ? A 
dowly house ye ’ve come to. Ye didna look 
to see this sa soon ? ” 

“ Very sudden, Martha — awfully sudden. 
I could not let the day pass without coming 
out to see you.” 

“Not me. Master Richard, but to ha’e a 
last look at the face of the father that begot 
ye. He’ll be shrouded and coffined by this 
time — the light ’ill not be lang on that face. 
The lid will be aboon it and screwed down 


to-morrow, I dar’ say. Ay, there goes the 
undertaker’s men ; and there’s a man from 
Mr. Paller — Mr. Plumes is hisname — that 
says he ’ll stay till your uncle David comes, 
for he told him he had something very par- 
ticular to say to him ; and I desired him to 
wait in m}’^ room after his business about 
the poor master was over; and the a ’ad 
things is passin’ awa’, and it’s time auld 
Martha was flittin’ herself.” 

“ Don’t say that, Martha, unless you 
AA'Ould have me think you expect to find me 
less kind than my father was.” 

“There’s good and there’s bad in every 
one. Master Richard. Ye can’t take it in 
meal and take it in malt. A bit short-waisted 
^e was, there ’s no denyin’, and a sharp word 
now and again ; but none so hard to live 
wi’ as many a one that was cooler-tempered 
and more mealy-mouthed ; and I think ye 
were o’er hard wi’ him. Master Richard. 
Ye should have spared the estate. It was 
that killed him,” she continued, consider- 
ately. “ Ye broke his heart. Master Richard ; 
he was never the same man after he fell out 
wi’ you.” 

“Some day, Martha, you’ll learn all 
about it,” said he, gently. “ It was no fault 
of mine — ask my uncle David, I’m not 
the person to persuade you ; and, besides, I 
have not courage to talk over that cruel 
quarrel now.” 

“ Come and see him,” said the old woman, 
grimly, taking up the candle. 

“No, Martha, no; set it down again — 
ITl not go.” 

“ And when will you see him ? ” 

“ Another time — not now — I can’t.” 

“ He’s laid in his coffin now ; they ’ll be 
out again in the rnornin’. If you don’t see 
him now, ye’ll never see him ; and what- 
will the folk down in Yorkshire say, when 
it ’s told at Arden Court that Master Richard 
never looked on his dead father’s face, nor 
saw more of him after his flittin’ than the 
plate on his coffin? By Jen ! ’twill stir the 
blood o’ the old tenants, and make them 
clench their fists and swear, I warrant, at 
the very sound o’ yer name ; for there never 
was an Arden died yet, at Arden Court, but 
he was waked, and treated wi’ every respect, 
and visited by every living soul of his kin- 
dred, for ten mile round.” 

“If you ‘think so, Martha, say no more. 
I’ll go — as well now as another time — 
and, as you say, sooner or later it must be 
done.” 


CHAPTER LI. 

T H E S I L no U E T T E. 

“ He ’s lookin’ very nice and like himself,” 
mumbled the old woman, as she led the 
way. 

At the open door of Sir Reginald’s room 
stood Mr. Plumes, in professional black, 


C IT i: C X :*[ A T E. 


113 



“ MR. PLUMES IN PROFESSIONAL BLACK.” 


with a pensive and solemn countenance, in- 
tending politely lo do the honors. 

“ Tliank you, sir,” said tlie old woman, 
graciously, taking the lead in the proceed- 
ings. “ This is tiie young master, and he 
won’t mind troublin’ you, Mr. Plumes. If 
you please to go to iny room, sir, the third door 
on tlie right, you ’ll find tea made, sir ; and 
Mr. Crozier, 1 think, will be there.” 

And having thus disposed of the stranger, 
they entered the room, in which several can- 
dles were burning. 

Sir Reginald Inid, as it were, already made 
dispositions for his final journey. He had 
left his bed, and lay, instead, in the hand- 
somely upholstered coffin which stood on 
tressels beside it. Thin and fixed were the 
cold, yellow features that looked upward 
from their white trimmings. Sir Richard 
Arden checked his step and held his breath 
as he came in sight of these stern lineaments. 
The pale light that surrounds the dead face 
of the martyr -vvas wanting here ; in its stead, 
upon selfish lines and contracted features, a 
shadow stood. 

Mrs. Tanscy, with a feather-brush placed 
near, drove away a fly that was trying to 
alight on the still face. 

I mind him when he was a boy,” she 
said, with a groan and a shake of the head. 
“There was but six years between us, and 
the life that’s ended is but a dream, all like 
yesterday — nothing to lookback on; and, 
*1 'm sure, if there’s rest for them that has 
been troubled on earth, he’s happy now: a 
blessed change ’tAvill be.” 

8 


“ Yes, Martha, we all have troubles.” 

“Ay, it’s well to know that in time: the 
young seldom does,” she answered, sardoni- 
cally. 

“ I ’ll go away, Martha. I ’ll return to 
the oak-room. I wish my uncle woro'come.” 

“ Well, you have took your last look, ami 
that’s but decent, and Dear me, Mas- 

ter Richard, you do look bad I ” 

“I feel a little faint, Martha. I’ll go 
there; and will you give me a glass of 
sherry? ” 

He waited at the room-door, while Martha 
nimbly ran to her room, and returned with 
some sherry and a wine-glass. He had 
I hardly taken a glass. :ind begun to feel him- 
self better, when David Arden’s step was 
heard approaching from the hall. 

He greeted his nephew and Martha in a 
hushed undertone, as he might in church ; 
and then, as people will enter such rooms, 
he passed in and crossed with a very soft 
tread, and said a word or two in whispers. 
You would have thought that Sir Reginald 
was tasting the sweet slumber of precarious 
convalescence, so tremendously does doath 
simulate sleep. 

When uncle David followed his nephew 
to the oak-room, where the servants had now 
placed candles, he appeared a little pale , as 
a man might who had just witnessed an op- 
eration. He looked through the unclosed 
shutters on the dark scene; then he turned, 
and placed his hand kindly on his nephow’s 
arm. and said he, with a sigh: 

“ Well, Dick, you ’re the head of the house 


lU 


C II E C K M ATE. 


now; flon’t run tlio old ship on the rocks. 
Ilemeniber, it is an old name, and, above 
all, remember that Alice is thrown upon 
your protection. Be a ^ood brother, Dick. 
She is a true-hearted, affectionate creature; 
be you the same to her. You can't do your 
duty by her unless you do it also by yourself. 
For the first time in your life, a momentous 
responsibility devolves upon you. In God’s 
name, Dick, j^.ive up play, and do yoiir duty !” 

“ I have learned a lesson, uncle ; I have 
not suffered in vain. I’ll never take a dice- 
box in my hand ajrain ; I ’d as soon take a 
burnimi; coal. 1 shall never back a horse 
ao;ain while I live. I am quite cured, thank 
God, of that madness. I shan’t talk about 
it; let time declare how I am changed.” 

“ I ’m glad to hear you speak so. You 
are right, that is the true test. Spoken like 
a man ! ” said uncle David, and he took his 
hand very kindly. 

The entrance of Martha Tanscy at this 
moment gave the talk a new turn. 

“ By-the-by, Martha,” said he, “has Mr. 
Plumes come? He said he would be here 
at eight o’clock.” 

“ lie ’s waitin’, sir ; and ’t was to tell you 
so I came in. Shall I tell him to come here? ” 

“ I asked him to come, Dick ; I knew you 
would allow me. He has some information 
to give me respecting the wretch who mur- 
dered your poor uncle Harry.” 

“ May I remain ? ” asked Richard. 

“ Do ; certainly.” 

“ Then, Martha, will you tell him to come 
here? ” said Richard, and in another minute 
the sable garments and melancholy visage 
of Mr. Plumes entered the room slowly. 

When Mr, Plumes was seated, he said, 
with much deliberation, in reply to uncle 
David’s question : 

“Yes, sir; I have brought it with me. 
You said, I think, you wished me to fetch 
it, and as my sister was at home, she hobleeg- 
ed me with a loan of it. It belonged, you 
may remember, to her deceased daughter — 
ray niece. I have got it in iny breast-pocket ; 
perhaps you would wish me now to take it 
bout?” 

“I am, indeed, most anxious to look at 
it,” said uncle David, approaching with ex- 
tended hand. “ You said you had seen him ; 
was this a good likeness? ” 

’J’hcse questions and the answers to them 
occupied the time during which Mr. Plumes, 
whose proceedings wci’c slow as a funeral, 
disengaged the square parcel in question 
from his pf)cket, and then went on to loosen 
the knots in the tape which tied it up, and 
afterwards to unfold the Avrappings of paper 
which enveloped it. 

“ I don’t remember him well enough, only 
that ho was good-looking. And this was 
took by machinery, and it ryiiist be like. The 
ball and socket they called it. It must be 
hexact, sir.” 

So saying, he produced a square black 
leather case, which being opened displayed 


a black profile, the hair and whiskers bein^ 
indicated by a sort of gilding which, laid 
upon sable, reminded one of the decorations 
of a coffin, and harmonized cheerfully with 
Mr. Plumes’ profession. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed uncle David with con- 
siderable disappointment, “1 thought it was 
a miniature; this is only a silhouette; but 
you are sure it is the profile of Yelland 
Mace?” 

“ That is certain, sir. His name is on the 
back of it, and she kept it, ])()or young wo- 
man ! Avith a lock of his ’air, and some bother 
relics in her Avork-box.” 

By this time uncle Davi<i was examining 
it Avitli deep interest. The outli ne demolished 
all his fancies about Mr. Longcluse. The 
nos?!, though delicately formed, avus deci- 
dedly the ruling feature of the face, tc Avas 
rather a parrot face, but with a good fore- 
head. 

David Arden was disappointed. He hand- 
ed it to his nephew. 

“ That is a kind of face one would easily 
remember,” he observed to Richard, as he 
looked. “ It is not like any one that I know 
or ever knew.” 

“ Nt),” said Richard ; “ I don’t recollect 
any one the least like it.” And he replaced 
it in his uncle’s hand. 

“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. 
Plumes ; it was your mention of it this morn- 
ing and my great anxiety to discover all I 
can respecting that man, Yelland Mace, that 
induced me to make the request. Thank 
you very much,” said old Mr. Arden, placing 
the profile in the fat fingers of Mr. Plumes. 
“ You must take a glass of sherry before you 
leave. And have you got a cab to return 
in?” 

“The men are Avaiting for me; I thank 
you, and I have just ’ad my tea, sir. mucli 
bobleeged, and I think I had best return to 
town, gentlemen, as I have some fcAV AA’ords 
to say to-night to our Mr. Trimmer ; so, with 
your leave, gentlemen. I’ll wish you good 
night.” 

And Avith a solemn boAV, first to Mr. Ar- 
den, then to the young scion of the house, 
and lastly a general boAV to Inffh, that grave 
gentleman withdreAV. 

“I could see no likeness in that thing to 
any one,” repeated old Mr. Arden. “ Mr. 
Longcluse is a friend of yours ? ” he added, 
a little abruptly. 

“I can’t say he was a friend ; he was an 
acquaintance ; but CA^en that is quite ended,” 

“ What ! you don’t knoAV him any longer?” 

“ No.” 

“ You ’re quite sure ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ Then I may say I’m very glad. I don’t 
like liim, and 1 can’t say Avhy ; but I can’t 
help connecting him with your poor uncle’s 
death. I must have dreamed about him and 
forgot the dream, Avhile the impression caused 
by it continues ; for I cannot discover in any 
fact Avlthin my knoAvledge the slightest jus- 


CHECKMATE. 


115 


tification for the unpleasant persuasion that 
constantly returns to rny I could not 

trace a likeness to him in that silhouette.’^ 

He looked at his nephew, who returned 
his steady look with one of utter surprise. 

“ Oh, dear ! no. There is not a vesti{>;eof 
a resemblance,” said Richard. “ 1 know his 
features very well ” 

“ No,” said uncle David, lowering his eyes 
to the table, on which he was tapping gently 
with his lingers ; “ no, there certainly is not 
— not any. But I can’t dismiss the sus- 
picion. I can’t get it out of my head, Rich- 
ard, and yet I can’t account for it,” he said, 
raising his eyes again to his nephew’s. 
“ There is something in it ; I could not else 
be so haunted.” 


CHAPTER LII. 

MR. LONGCLUSE EMPLOYED. 

The funeral was not to be for some days, 
and then to be conducted in the quietest 
manner possible. He was to be buried in a 
small vault under the little church, whose 
steeple cast its shadow every sunny evening 
across the garden-hedges of the “ Guy of 
Warwick,” and could be seen to the left from 
the door of Mortlake Hall, among distant 
trees. 

Further, it was settled by Richard Arden 
and his uncle, on putting their heads to- 
gether, that the funeral was to take place 
after dark in the evening ; and even the un- 
dertaker’s people "were kept in ignorance of 
the exact day and hour. 

In the mean time, Mr. Longcluse did not 
trouble any member of the family with his 
pondolences or inquiries. As a crow perched 
on a solitar}'^ bough surveys the country 
round, and obsertes many things — very 
little noticed himself — so Mr. Longcluse* 
made his observations from his own perch 
and in his own way. 

Perhaps he was a little surprised on re- 
ceiving from Lady May Penrose a note, in 
the following terms : — 

“ Dear Mr. Longcluse. — I have jnst heard something: 
that troubles me ; and as I know of no one who would 
moi'e readily do me a kindne.ss, I hope you won't think 
me very troublesome if I beg of you to make me a call to- 
morrow morning, at any time before twelve. — Ever yotiis 
sincerely, AEay Penrose.” 

Mr. Longcluse smiled darkly, as he read 
this note again. “ It is better to be sought 
after than to obtrude one’s self.” 

Accordingly, next morning, Mr. Long- 
cluse presented himself in Lady May’s draw- 
ing-room ; and after a little waiting that 
good-natured lady entered the room. She 
liked to make herself miseralile about the 
troubles of her friends, and on tliis occasion, 
on entering the door, she lifted her hands 
and eyes, and quickened her step towards 
Mr. Longcluse, who advanced a step or two 
to meet her. 


“ Oh ! Mr. Longcluse, it is so kind of you 
to come,” she explained ; “ I am in such a 
sea of troubles ! and you are such a friend, I 
know I may tell you. You have heard, of 
course, of poor Reginald’s <leath. How hor- 
ribly sudden! shocking! and dear Alice is 
so broken by it! He had been, the day be- 
fore, so cross — poor Reginald, everybody 
knows he had a temper, poor old soul ! ~ 
and had made himself so disagreeable to her, 
and now she is quite miserable, as if it had 
been her fault. But no matter ; it’s not about 
that. Only do you happen to know of peo- 
ple — bankers or something — called Chil- 
ders and Ballard ? ” 

“ Oh, dear ! yes ; Childers and Ballard ; 
they are city people, on ’Change — stock- 
brokers. They are people you can quite rely 
on, so far as their solvency is concerned.” 

“Oh ! it isn’t that. They have not been 
doing any business for me. It is a very un- 
pletusant thing to speak about, even to a kind 
friend like you ; but I want you to advise 
what is best to be done ; and to ask you, if 
it is not very unreasonable, to use any 'in- 
fluence you can — without trouble, of course, 

I mean — to prevent anything so distressing 
as may possibly happen.” 

“You have only to say, dear Lady May, 
what I can do. I am too happy to place my 
poor services at your disposal.” 

“ I knew you Avould say so,” said Lady 
May, again shaking hands in a very friendly 
way ; “and I know what I say won’t go any 
further. I mean, of course, that you will re- 
ceive it entirely as a confidence.” 

Mr. Longcluse Avas earnest in his assur- 
ances of secrecy and good faith. 

“Well,” said Lady May, lowering her 
voice, “poor Reginald, he Avas my cousin, 
you knoAA% so it p.ains me to say it; but he 
was a good deal embarrassed ; his estates 
were very much in debt. He owed money 
to a great many people, I belieA’’e.” 

“ Oh ! Really ?” Mr. Longcluse expressed 
his well-bred surprise very creditably. 

“ Yes, indeed ; and these people, Childers 
and Ballard, have something they call a 
judgment, I think. It is a kind of debt, for' 
about tAvelve hundred pounds, Avhich they 
say must be paid at once ; and they vow 
that if it is not they Avill seize ihe coffin, 
and — and — all that, at the funeral. And 
David Arden is so angry, you can’t think, 
and he says that the money is not oAved 
to them, and that they have no right by 
hiAV to do any such thing, and that from 
beginning to end it is a mere piece of ex- 
tortion. And he Avon’t hear of Richard’s 
paying a farthing of it; ancf he says that 
Richard must bring a laAvsuit against them, 
for ever so much money, if they attempt 
anything of the kind, and that he’s suto to 
Avin. But tliat is not Avhat I am thinking 
of — it is about poor Alice, she is so misera- 
ble iibout the mere chance of its happening. 
The profanation — the fracas — all so shock- 
ing. and so public — the funeral, you know.” 


116 


CHECK M A T E. 


“ You are quite sure of that, Lady May?'’ 
said Longcluse. 

“ I heard it all as I tell you. My man 
of business. told me; and I saw David 
Arden,” she answered. 

“ Oh ! yes ; but I mean with respect to 
Miss Arden. Does she, in particular, so 
very earnestly desire intervention in this 
awkward buvsiness?” 

“ Certainly ; only she — only Miss Arden 
— only Alice.” 

He looked down in thouo;ht, and then 
again in her face, paler than usual. He had 
made up his mind. 

“I shall take measures,” he said, quietly. 
‘‘ I shall do everything — anything in my 
yower. I shall even expose myself to the 
risk of insult, for her sake ; only let it 
soften her. After I have done it, ask her, 
not before, to think mercifully of me.” 

He was going. 

” Stay, Mr. Longcluse, just a moment. I 
don’t know what 1 am to say to you ; I am 
so much obliged. And yet how can I un- 
dertake that anything you do may affect 
other people as you wish ?” 

“Yes, of course you are right; I am 
willing to take my chance of that. Only, 
dear Lady May, will you lorite to her? All 
I plead for — and it is the last time I shall 
sue to her for anything — is that my folly 
may be forgotten, and I restored to the 
humble privileges of an acquaintance.” 

“But do you really wish me to write. 
I ’ll take an opportunity of speaking to her. 
Would not that be less formal?” 

“ Perhaps so ; but, forgive me, it would 
not answer. I beg of you to write.” 

“ But why do you prefer my writing?” 

“ Because I shall then read her answer.” 

“ Then I must tell her that you are to 
read her reply.” 

“ Certainly, dear Lady May ; I meant 
nothing else.” 

“Well, Mr. Longcluse, there is no great 
difficulty.” 

“ I only make it a request, not a condition. 
I shall do my utmost in any case. Pray tell 
• her that.” 

“ Yes, I ’ll write to her, as you wish it ; or, 
at least. I’ll ask her to put on paper what 
she desires me to say, and I’ll read it to 
you.” 

“ That will answer as well. How can I 
thank you ?” 

“ ’There is no need of thanks. It is I who 
should thank you for taking, I am afraid, 
a great deal of trouble so promptly and 
kindly.” ^ 

“ I know thbse people ; they are cunning 
and violent, difficult to deal with, harder to 
trust,” said Longcluse, looking down in 
thought. “ I should be most happy to settle 
with them, and afterwards the executor 
miglit settle with me at his convenience ; 
but, from what you say, Mr. David Arden 
and his nephew won’t admit their claim. I 
don’t believe such a seizure would be legal ; 


but they are people who frequently venture 
illegal measures^ upon the calculation that 
it would embarrass those against whom 
they adopt them more than themselves to 
bring them into cf)urt. It is not an easy 
card to play, you see, and they are people I 
hate ; but I ’ll try.” 

In another minute Mr. Longcluse had 
taken his leave, and was gone. 


CHAPTER LlII. 

THE NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL. 

Mr. Longcluse smiled as he sat in his cab, 
driving cityward to the office of Messrs. 
Childers and Ballard. 

“How easily, now, one might get up a 
scene ! Let Ballard, the monster — he would 
look the part well — with his bailiffs, seize 
the coffin and its precious burden in the 
church ; and I, like Sir Edward Maulay, 
step forth from behind a pillar to stay the 
catastrophe. We could make a very fine 
situation, and I the hero ; but the girl is too 
clever for that, and Richard as sharp — that 
is, as base — as I ; knowing my objects, he 
would at once see a plant, and all would be 
spoiled. I shall do it in the least picturesque 
and most probable way. I should like to 
know that old housekeeper, 3Irs. Tansey, 
better ; I should like to be on good terms 
with her. An awkward meeting with Ar- 
den. What the devil do I care? besides, it 
is but one chance in a hundred. Yes, that 
is the best way. Can I see Mr. Ballard in 
his private room for a minute?” he added 
aloud, to the clerk, Mr. Blotter, behind the 
mahogany counter, who turned from his desk 
deferentially, let himself down from his 
stool, and stood attentive before the great 
man, with his pen behind his ear. 

“ Certainly, Mr. Longcluse, certainly, sir. 
Will you allow me, sir, to conduct you ? ” 

Most men would have been peremptorily 
denied ; the more fortunate would have had 
to await the result of an application to Mr. 
Ballard ; but to Mr. Longcluse all doors flew 
open, and wherever he went, like Mephis- 
topheles, the witches received him gaily, and 
the cat-apes did him homage. 

Without waiting for the assistance of Mr. 
Blotter, he ran up the back-stairs familiarly 
to see Mr. Ballard ; and when Mr. Longcluse 
came down, looking very grave, Mr. Ballard, 
with the red face and lowering countenance 
w'hich he could not put off, accompanied him 
down stairs deferentially, and held open the 
office-door for him ; and could not suppress 
his grins for some time in the consciousness 
of the honor he had received. Mr. Ballard 
hoped that the people over the way had seen 
Mr. Longcluse step from his door ; and men- 
tioned to every one he talked to for a week 
that he had Mr. Longcluse in his private office 
in consultation — first, it was “ for a quarter 


117 


CHECKMATE. 


of an hour by the clock over the chimney/^ 
speedily it grew to “ half an hour/^ and 

finally to “upwards of an hour, by ” 

.with a stare in the face of the wondering, or 
curious, listener. And when clients looked 
in, in tlie course of the day to consult him, 
he would say, with a wag of his head and a 
little looseness about minutes, “ There was 
a man sitting here a minute ago, Mr. Long- 
cluse — yt)u may have met him as you came 
up the stairs — that could have given us a 
wrinkle about that ; or, “ Lon gel use, who 
was here consulting me this morning, is 
clearly of opinion that Italian bonds will be 
down a quarter by settling day ; ” or, Take 
iny advice, and don’t burn your fingers with 
those things, for it is possible something 
queer may happen any day after Wednesday. 
1 had Longcluse — I dare say you may have 
heard of him,” he parenthesised, jocularly — 
“ sitting in that ctiair to-day for very nearly 
an hour and a half, and that’s a fellow one 
does n’t sit long with without hearing some- 
thing worth remembering.” 

From the attorney of Sir Richard Arden 
was served upon Messrs. Childers and Bal- 
lard, that day, a cautionary notice in very 
stern terms respecting their threatened at- 
tack upon Sir Reginald’s funeral appoint- 
ments and body; to which they replied in 
terms as sharp, and fixed three o’clock for 
payment of the bond. 

it was a very short mile from Mortlake to 
that small old church near the “Guy of War- 
wick,” the bit of whose gray spire and the 
pinnacle of whose weather-cock you could 
see between the two great clumps of elms to 
the left. Sir Reginald, feet foremost, was 
to make this little journey that evening, 
under a grove of black plumes, to the small, 
quiet room, which he was thenceforward to 
share with his ancestor Sir Hugh Arden, of 
Mortlake Hall, Baronet, whose pillared mon- 
ument decorated the little church. 

He lies now, soldered up and screwed 
down, irj his straight bed, triply secured in 
lead, mahogany, and oak, and as safe as 
“ the old woman of Berkeley” hoped to be 
from the grip of marauders. 

Once there, and the stone door replaced 
and mortared in, tlie irritable old gentleman 
might sleep the quietest sleep his body had 
ever enjoyed to the crack of doom. The 
space was short, too, which separated that 
from the bed-room he was leaving ; but the 
interval was “ Jew’s ground,” trespassing on 
which, it was thought, he ran a great risk 
of being captured by frantic creditors. A 
whisper of the danger had got into the house- 
keeper’s room ; and Crozier, whose north- 
country blood w'as hot, and temper warlike, 
had loaded the horse-pistols, and swore that 
he would shoot the first man who laid a hand 
unfriendly on the old master’s coffin. There 
was an agitation simmering under the grim 
formalities and tip-toe treadingsof the house 
of death. Martha I'ansey grew frightened, 
angry us she was, and told Richard Arden | 


that Crozier was “ neither to hold nor to 
bind, and meant to walk by the hearse, and 
stand by the coffin till it was shut into the 
vault, with loaded pistols in his pockets, and 
would make food for worms so sure as they 
villains dar’d to interrupt the funeral.” 

Whereupon Richard saw Crozier, took the 
pistols from him,.shook him very hard by the 
hand, for he liked him all the more, and told 
him that he would desire nothing better than 
their attempting to accomplish their threats, 
as he was well advised the law would make 
examples of them. 

Then he went up stairs, and saw Alice, 
and he could not help thinking how her 
black crapes became her. He kissed her, 
and, sitting duwm beside her, said : 

“ Martha Tausey says, darling, that you 
are unhappy about something she has been 
telling you concerning this miserable funeral. 
She ought not to have alarmed you about it. 
If I had known that you were frightened, or, 
in fact, knew anything about it, I should 
have made a point of coming out here yester- 
day, although I had fifty things to do.” 

“ I had a very good-natured note to-day, 
Dick, from Lady May,” she said; “only a 
word, but very ki,ndly intended ” And she 
placed the open note in his fingers. When 
he had read it, Richard dropped the note on 
the table with a sneer. 

“That man, I suspect, is himself the 
secret promoter of this outrage — a very in- 
expensive way, this, of making character 
with Lady May, and placing you under an 
obligation — the scoundrel ! ” 

Looks and language of hatred are not very 
pretty at any time, but in the atmosphere 
of death they acquire a character of horror. 
Some momentary disturbance of this kind 
Richard may have seen in his sister’s pale 
face, for he said : 

“ Don’t mind what I say about that fel- 
low, for I have no patience with myself for 
having ever known him.” 

“ I am so glad, Dick, that you have dropped 
that acquaintance ! ” said the jmung lady. 

“ You have come, at last, to think as I do,” 
said Richard. 

“ It is not so much thinking as something 
different: the uncertainty about him — the 
appalling stories you have heard — and, oh ! 
Richard, I had such a dream last night ! I 
dreamed that Mr. Longcluse murdered you. 
You smile, but I could not have imagined 
anything that was not real, so vivid, and it 
was in this room, and — I don’t know how, 
for I forget the beginning of it — the candles 
went out, and you were standing near the 
door talking to me, and bright moonlight 
was shining in at the window, and showed 
oil quite distinctly, and the open door ; and 
saw Mr. Longcluse come from behind it 
with a pistol, and raise it to shoot you ; and 
1 tried to scream, but I couldn’t. But you 
turned alK)ut and stabbed at him with a 
knife or something ; I saw it shine in the 
moonlight, and instantly there was a line of 


118 


C II E C K M A T E. 


blood across his face, and he fired, and I 
saw you fall back on the floor ; I knew 3*011 
were dead, and I awoke with the shock in a 
state of terror. I thought I still saw his 
wicked face in the dark, quite white as it 
was in my dream. I screamed, and thought 
I was going mad.’^ 

“It is only, darling, that all which has 
liuppcned has made you Viervous, and no 
wonder. Don't mind your dreams. Loug- 
cluse and I will never exchange a word 
more. We have turned our backs on one 
another, and our paths lie in very difierent 
directions." 

This was a melancholy and grizzly even- 
ing at Mortlake Hall. The undertakers 
were making some final and m3"sterious 
arrangements about the coffin, and stole in 
and out of the dead baronet’s room, of which 
they had taken possession. 

Martha Tansey was alone in her room. It 
was a lurid sunset. Immense masses of 
black cloud were piled in the west, and 
from a long opening in that sombre screen, 
near the horizon, the expiring light glared 
■ like the red fire through the chinks of a 
smithy. Mrs. Tansey, dressed in deepest 
mourning, awaited the hour when she was 
to accompany the funeral of her old master. 
Without succumbing to the threat of Messrs. 
Childers and Ballard, David Arden and his 
nephew would have been glad to evade the 
risk of the fracas, which w'ould no doubt 
have been a dismal scandal. Martha Tansey 
herself was not quite sure at what hour the 
funeral was to leave Mortlake. Opposite 
the window from which she looked, stand 
groups of gigantic elms that darken that 
side of the house, and underwood forms a 
thick screen among their trunks. 

Upon the edges of this foliage glinted that 
fierce farewell gleam, and among the dark 
leaves behind she thought she saw the sin- 
ister face of Mr. Longcluse looking toward 
her. 

Her fear and horror of Longcluse had in- 
creased, and if the very remembrance of him 
visited her with a sudden qualm, you may 
be sure that the sight of him, on this mel- 
ancholy evening, was a shock. Alice’s wild 
dream, which she had recounted to her, did 
not serve to dissociate him from the vague 
misgivings that his image called up. She 
stared aghast at the apparition — itself un- 
certain — which in the deep shadow, with a 
foreground of fiercely glimmering leaves, 
had on a sudden looked at her, and before 
she could utter an exclamation it was gone. 

“ I think it is my old eyes that plays me 
tricks, and my weary head that’s ’wildered 
wi’ all this dowly jummlement! What sud 
bring him there? It was never him I sa’, 
only a fancy, and it’s past and gone; and 
so, ill' the name of God, be it now and ever, 
amen ! For an evil sight it is, and bodes 
us no good. Who ’s there? ’’ 

“ It ’s me, Mrs. Tanse3q’’ said Crozier. 
who had just come in. “Master Richard 


desired me to tell you it is to be at ten o’clock 
to-night. lie and Mr. David thinks that 
best, and you ’re to please not mention it to 
no one.’’ 

“ Ten o’clock ! That’s very late, ain ’t it ? 
No, surely, I ’ll not blab to no one ; let him 
tell them when he sees fit. Martha 'ranse3"’s 
na that sort ; she has had mony a secret to 
keep, and always the confidence o’ the 
iamily, and ’t would be queer if she did not 
know to ho’d her tongue by this time. Sit 
ye down, Mr. Crozier — ye’re wore off yer 
feet, like m3*self, ever since this happened 
— and rest a bit; the kettle’s boilin’, and 
ye ’ll tak’ a cup 0’ tea. It ’s hours yet to ten 
o’clock.’’ 

So Mr. Crozier, who was in truth a tired 
man, complied, and took his seat b}' the fin', 
and talked over Sir Reginald’s money mat- 
ters, his fits, and his death ; and, finally, 
he fell asleep in his chair, having taken 
three cups of tea. 

The twilight had melted into darkness by 
this time, and the clear, cold moonlight was 
frostir>g all the landscape, and falling white 
and bright on the carriage-way outside, and 
casting on the floor the sharp shadows of the 
window-sashes, and giving brilliant repre- 
sentations of the windows and the very vein- 
ing of the panes of glass upon the white 
boards. As Martha sat by the talile, with 
her eyes fixed, in a reverie, on one of these 
reflections upon the floor, the shadow of a 
man was suddenl3* presented upon it, and 
raising her eyes she saw a figure, black 
against the moonlight, beckoning gently to 
her to approach. 

Martha Tansey was an old lass of the 
Northumbrian counties, and had in her veins 
the fiery blood of the Border. The man 
wore a greatrcoat, and she could not discern 
his features; but he was tall and slight, and 
she was sure he was Mr. Longcluse. But 
“what dar’ Longcluse say or do that she 
need fear ?’’ And was not Crozier dozing 
there in the chair, “ ready at call ? ’’ 

Up she got and stalked boldly to the win- 
dow, and, drawing near, she plainly saw, as 
the stranger drew himself up from the win- 
dow-pane through which he had been look- 
ing, and the moonlight glanced on his fea- 
tures, that the face was indeed that of Mr. 
Longcluse. 

He looked very pale, and was smiling, 
lie nodded to her in a friendl3’ way once or 
twice as she approached. She stood stock- 
still about two yards away, and though she 
knew him well, she deigned no sign of recog- 
nition, for she had learne<l vaguely some- 
thing of the feud that had sprung up 
between him and the young head of the 
family, and no daughter of the marches was 
ever a fiercer partisan than lean old Martha. 

He tapped at the windorw, still smiling, 
and beckoned her nearer. She did come a 
step nearer, and asked, sternly: 

“What’s 3*our will wi’ me?’’ 

“ I ’in Mr. Longcluse,’’ he said, in a low 


CHECKMATE. 


119 


tone, but with sharp and measured articula- 
tion. “ I have something important to say. 
Open the window a little; I must not raise 
my voice, and I have this to give you.^' He 
held a note by the corner, and tapped it on 
the glass. 

Martha Tansey thought for a moment. It 
could not be a law-writ he had to serve ; a 
rich man like him would never do that. 
Why should she not take his note, and hear 
what he had to say? 

She removed the bolt from the sash, and 
raised the window. There was not a breath 
stirring. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

AMONG THE TREES. 

When the old woman had raised the win- 
dow, “ Thanks,’’ said Mr. Longcluse, .almost 
in a whisper. “ There are people, Lady May 
Penrose told me this morning, threatening 
to interrupt the funeral to-night. Of course 
you know — you must know.” 

“I have heard o’ some such matter, but 
’t is uout to no one here. We don’t care a 
snap for them, and if they try any sich lids, 
by my sang, we’ll fit them! And I think, 
sir, if ye ’ve anything o’ consequence to tell 
the family, ye ’ll not mind my saying ’t would 
1)0 better ye sud go, like ither folk, to the 
hall-door, and leave your message there.” 

“ Your reproof would be better deserved, 
Mrs. Tansey,” he answered, good-humoredly, 
“if there had not been a difficulty. Mr. 
Richard Arden is not on pleasant terms 
with me, and my business will not afford to 
wait. I understand that Miss Arden has 
suffered much anxiety. It is entirely on her 
account that I have interested myself so 
much in it; and 1 don’t see, Mrs. 'I'ansey, 
why you and I should not be better friends,” 
he added, extending his long slender hand 
gently toward her. 

She did not take it, but made a stiff little 
curtsey instead, and drew back about six 
inches. 

Perhaps Mr. Longcluse had meditated 
making her a present, but her severe looks 
daunted him, and he thought that he might 
as well be a little better acquainted before he 
made that venture. He went on. 

“ You have spoken very wisely, Mrs. Tan- 
sey ; I am sure if these people do as they. 
thVeaten it will be contrary to law, and so, 
as you say, you may snap your fingers at 
them at last. But, in the mean time, they 
may enter the house and seize the coffin, or 
possibly cause some disgr.aceful interruption 
on the way. Lady May tells me that Miss 
Alice has suffered a great deal in conse- 
quence. Will you tell her to set her mind 
at ease ? Pray assure, her that I h.ave seen 
the people, that I have threatened them into 
submission, that f am confident no such at- 
tempt will be made, and that should the 


slightest annoyance be attem))ted, Crozier 
has only to present the notice inclosed in 
this to the person offering it, and it will in- 
stantly be discontinued. I have done all 
this entirely on her account, and pray lose 
no time in quieting her alarms. I am sure, 
Mrs. Tansey, you and I shall be better 
friends some day.” 

Mrs. Tansey curtseyed again. 

” Pray take this note.” 

She took it. 

“Give it to Crozier, and tell him, if any 
person should attempt to interrupt the fu- 
neral, to place it in his hand ; and pray tell 
Miss Alice Arden, immediately, that she 
need have no fears. Good night.” 

And pale Mr. Longcluse, vsdth his smile 
and his dismally dark gaze, and the strange 
suggestion of something undefined in look, 
or tone, or air that gradually overcame her 
more and more till she almost felt faint, as 
he smiled and murmured at the open window, 
in the moonlight, was gone. Then she stood 
with the note in her thin fingers, without 
moving, and calling to Crozier with a shrill 
and earnest summons, as one W'ho has just 
had a frightful dream will call up a sleeper 
in the same room. 

Mr. Longcluse walked boldly and listlessly 
throujih this forbidden ground. He did not 
care who might meet him. Near the house, 
indeed, he would not have liked an encounter 
wdth wSir Richard Arden, because he knew 
that his being involved in a quarrel at such a 
moment, so near, especially with her brother, 
would not subserve his interests with Alice 
Arden. For hours he strode or loitered along 
through the solitary woodlands. The moon- 
light w'as beautiful : the old trees stood black 
and mournful against the luminous sky.; 
there was for him a fascination in the soli- 
tude, as his noiseless steps led him alter- 
nately into the black shadow cast on the 
sward by the tow^ering foliage, and into the 
clear moonlight, on dewy grass that showed 
gray in that cold brightness. He was in the 
excitement of hope and suspense. Things 
had looked very black, but a door had opened 
and light came out. Was it a dream ? 

He leaned with folded arms against the 
trunk of one of the huge trees that stand 
there, and from the slight elevation of the 
ground he could see the avenue under the 
boughs of the trees that flank it, and the 
chimneys of Mortlake Hall through the sum- 
mits of the opening clumps. Ilow^ melan- 
choly and still the whole scene looked under 
that light 1 

“ When I succeed to all this, who will be 
mistress of it?” he said, wdth his strange 
smile, looking toward the summits of the 
chimneys that indicated the site of the Hall. 
“ No one know\s who I am ; who can tell my 
history ? What about that opera-girl ? What 
about my money ? — money is always ex- 
aggerated, How many humbugs ! how many 
collapses! stealing into society by evasions, 
on false pretences, in disguise! The ma>i in 


120 


CHECKMATE. 


the mask, ha! ha! Really? perhaps iwo 
masks; not a bad fluke, that. The villain! 
You would not take a thousand pounds and 
know me — that is speaking boldly. A thou- 
sand pounds is still something in your book. 
You would not take it. The time will come, 
perhaps, when youM give a thousand — ten 
thousand, if you had them — that I were 
your friend. Slanderous villain ! To think 
of his talking so of me ! The man in the 
mask trying to excite suspicion. JMy two 
masks are broken, and I all the better. By 

! you shall meet me yet without a mask. 

Alice! will you be my idol? There is no 
neutrality with one like me in such a case. 
If I don’t worship I must hreak that image. 
What a speck we stand on between the illim- 
itable — the eternal past and the eternal 
future — always looking for a present that 
shall be something tangible ; ahvays finding 
it a mathematical point, cvjus nulla est pars 
— the mere stand-point of a retrospect and a 
conjecture. Ha ! There are the wheels : 
there goes the funeral !” 

He held his breath, and watched. How 
interesting was everything connected with 
Alice ! SloAvly it passed along. Through 
one opening made by the havoc of a storm 
in the line of trees that formed the avenue, 
he saw H plainly enough. A very scanty 
procession — the plumed hearse, and three 
carriages, and a few persons walking beside. 
It passed. The great iron gate wailed its 
long and dolorous note as it opened, and 
Longcluse heard it clang after the last car- 
riage had passed, and with this farewell the 
old gate sent forth the dead master of Mort- 
lake to darkness. 

“ Farewell to Mortlake,” murmured Long- 
cluse, as he heard these sounds, with a shrug 
and his peculiar smile ; “ farewell, the 

lights, the claret-jug, the whist, and all the 
rest. You ‘fear neither justices nor bailiffs,’ 
as the song says, any longer. Very easy 
about your interest and your premiums ; 
very careless who arrests you in your leaden 
vesture ; and having paid, if nothing else, at 
least your beloved Bon’s, post-obit. Courage, 
Sir Reginald ! your earthly troubles are over. 
Here am I, erect at this tree, and as like to 
live my term out, with all that money, and 
no will made, and j^et as tired as ever you 
were, and very willing, if the transaction 
were feasible, to die, and be bothered no 
more, instead of you. Never did man walk 
this world in such a chaos as I.” 

He sighed, and looked toward the house, 
and sighed again. 

“Does she relent? Was it not she who 
told Lady May to ask this service of me ? 
If I could only be sure of that, 1 should 
stand here, this moment, the proudest man 
in England. I think I know myself — a 
very simple character: just two principles 
— love and malice; for the rest, unscrupu- 
lous. Mere cruelty gives me no pleasure : 
well for some people it don’t. Revenge does 
make me hapi»y: well for some people if it 


didn’t. Except for those I love or those I 
hate, I live for none. The rest live for me. 
I owe them no more than I do this rotten 
stick. Let them rot and fatten my land ; 
let them burn and bake my bread.” 

With these words he kicked the fragments 
of a decayed branch that lay at his foot, and 
glided over the short grass, like a ghost, to- 
ward the gate. 


CHAPTER LV. 

MR. LONGCLUSE SEES A FRIEND. 

Sir Reginald Arden, then, is actually 
dead and buried, and is quite done with the 
pomps and vanities, the business and the 
miseries of life — dead as King Duncan, and 
cannot come out of his grave to trouble any 
one with protestor interference ; and his son, 
Sir Richard, is in possession of the title, and 
seized of the acres, and uses them, without 
caring to trouble himself with conjectures as 
to what his father would have liked or ab- 
horred. 

A week has passed since the funeral. 
Lady May has spent two days at Mortlake, 
and then gone down to Brighton. Alice does 
not leave Mortlake; her spirits do mot rise. 
Kind Lad}^ May has done her best to per- 
suade her to come dowm with lier to Brigh- 
ton, but the perversity or the indolence of 
grief has prevailed, and Alice has grown 
more melancholy and self-upbraiding about 
her quarrel ‘with her father, and wdll not be 
persuaded to leave Mortlake, the very worst 
place she could have chosen, as Lady May 
protests, for a residence during her mourn- 
ing. Perhaps in a little while she may feel 
equal to the effort, but now she can’t. She 
has quite lost her energy, and the idea of a 
place like Brighton, or even the chance of 
meeting people, is odious to her. 

“ So, my dear, do what I may, there she 
will remain, in the triste place,” said Lady 
' May Penrose; “and her brother, Sir Rich- 
ard, has so much business just now on his 
hands, that he is often aw’ay two or three 
days at a time, and then she stays moping 
there quite alone ; and only that she likes 
gardening and flowers, and that kind of 
thing. I really think she w'ould go melan- 
choly mad. But you know that kind of folly 
can’t go on always, and I am determined to 
I take her away in a month or so. People at 
first are often in a morbid state, and make 
recluses of themselves.” 

Lady May stayed aw'ay at Brighton for 
about a Aveek. On her return, Mr. Long- 
cluse called to see her. 

“ It was so kind of you, Mr. Longcluse, to 
take all the trouble you did about that ter- 
rible business! and itAvas perfectly success- 
ful. There Avas not the slightest unpleas- 
antness.” 

“ Yes ; I knoAV I had made anything of 
that kind but all impossible, but you arc not 


CHECKMATE. 


121 


to thank me. It made me only too happy to 
have an opportunity of being of any use — 
of relieving any anxiety.'^ 

Longcluse sighed. 

“ You have placed me, I know, under a 
great obligation, and if every one felt it as I 
do, you would have been thanked as you de- 
served before now,’’ 

A little silence followed. 

“How is Miss Arden?” asked he in a 
low tone, and hardly raising his eyes. 

“ Pretty well,” she answered, a little dryly; 
“but she is not very wise, I think, to shut 
herself up so entirely in that melancholy 
place, Mortlake. You have seen it?” 

“ Yes, more than once,” be answered. 
Lady May appeared more embarrassed as 
Mr. Longcluse grew less so. They became 
silent again. Mr. Longcluse was the first 
to speak, which he did a little hesitatingly, 
“ I was going to say that I hoped Miss 
Arden was not vexed at my having ventured 
to interfere as I did.” 

‘‘ Oh ! about that, of course there ought to 
be, as I said, but one opinion ; but you know 
she is not herself just now, and I shall have, 
perhaps, something to tell by-and-b3S and, 
to say truth — you won’t be vexed — but I ’m 
sorry I undertook to speak to her, for on that 
point I really don’t quite understand her; 
and I am a little vexed — and — , 1 ’ll talk to 
yon more another time. I ’m obliged to keep 
an appointment just now, and the carriage,” 
she added, glancing at the pendule on the 
bracket close by, “ will be at the door in two 
or three minutes ; so I must do a very un- 
gracious thing, and say good-by ; and you 
must come again very soon — come to lunch- 
eon to-morrow — you must, really; I won’t 
let 3n)u off, I assure you ; there are two or 
three people coming to see me, wTiom I think 
you would like to meet.” 

And, looking very good-natured, and a 
little flushed, and rather avoiding IMr. Long- 
cluse’s dark eyes, she departed. 

lie had been thinking of paying Miss 
Maubray a visit, but he had not avowed, 
even to himself, how high his hopes had 
mounted ; and here was, in Lady May’s omi- 
nous manner and determined evasion, mat- 
ter to disturb and even shock him. Instead, 
therefore of pursuing the route he had origi- 
nally designed, he strolled into the park, and 
under the shade of green boughs he walked, 
amid the twitter of birds and the prattle of 
children and nursery-maids, with despair at 
his heart, and a brain full of images that 
might have crowded chaos. 

As he sauntered, with down-cast looks, 
under the trees, he came upon an humble 
Hebrew friend, Mr. Goldshed, a magnate in 
his own circle, but dwarfed into nothing be- 
fore the paragon of Mammon who walked on 
the grass, so unpretentiously, and with a 
face a^ anxious as that of the green-grocer 
who hati just been supplicating the Jo*v for 
a renewal of his twenty-five pound bill. 

Mr. (Joldshed came to a full stop a little 


way in advance of IMr. Longcluse, anxious 
to attract his attention. 

IMr. Longcluse did see him, as he saun- 
tered on ; and the fat old Jew. Avith the seedy 
velvet waistcoat, crossed with gold chains, 
and Avith an old-fashioned gold eve-glass 
dangling at his breast, first smiled engag- 
ingly, tlieu looked reverential and solemn, 
and then smiled again with his great moist 
lips, and raised his hat. 

Longcluse gave him a sharp, short nod, 
and intended to pass him. 

. “Will you shpare me one word, Mr. Long- 
clooshe?” ^ 

“ Not to-day, sir.” 

“ But I ’ve been to your chambers, sir, and 
to your houshe, Mr. Longclooshe.” 

“ You’ve AA'asted time — Avaste no more.” 

“ I do assure you, shir, it ’sh \evy urgent.” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“ It’sh about that East Indian thing,” and 
he lowered his voice as he concluded the 
sentence. 

“ I don’t care a pin, sir.” 

The amiable Mr. Goldshed hesitated; Mr. 
Longcluse passed him as if he had been a 
post. He turned, hoAveA’^er, and walked a 
few steps by Mr. Longcl use’s side. 

“And everything elshe is going sho veil; 
and it Avould look fishy, don’t you think, to 
let thish thing go that way ? ” 

“Let them go — and go you with them. 
I Avish the earth would open and SAvallow 
you all — scrip, bonds, children, and bel- 
dames.” And if a stamp could have made 
the earth open at his bidding, it would have 
yawned wide enough at that instant. “If 
you folloAV me another step, by Heaven, I ’ll 
make it unplea.sant to you.” 

Mr. Longcluse looked so angry, that the 
Jew made him an unctuous bow, and re- 
mained fixed fijr awhile to the earth, gazing 
after his patron with his hands in his 
pockets; and, Avith a gloomy countenance, 
he took forth a big cigar from his case, 
lighted a vesuvian, and began to smoke, still 
looking after Mr. Longcluse. 

That gentleman sauntered on, striking his 
stick nowand then to the ground, orAvaving 
it over the grass in as many odd flourishes 
as a magician in a pantomime traces with 
his Avand. 

If men are prone to tease themselves with 
imaginations, they are equally disposed to 
comfort themselves with the same shadoAvy 
influences. 

“ I ’m so nervous about this thing, and so 
anxious, that I exaggerate everything Avhi eh 
seems to tell against me. Hoav did I ever 
come to love her so? And yet, AA’ould I kill 
that love if I could? Should I not kill m)^- 
self in doing so? I’ll go and see Miss 
Maubray — I may hear something from her. 
Lady May was embarrassed: what then: 
Were I a simple observer of such a scene in 
the case of another, I should say there Avas 
nothing in it more than this — tliat she had 
quite forgotten all about her promise. She 


122 


CHECKMATE. 



“ STILL LOOKING AFTER MR. LONCPCLUSE.^^ 


never mentioned my name, and when the 
moment came, and I had come to ask for an 
account, she did not know what to say. It 
was well done, to see old Mrs. Tansey as T 
did. Lady May is so <i:ood-natured. and 
would feel her little neglect so much, and 
she will be sure to 'make it up. Fifty things 
may haye prevented her. Yes, I'll go arid 
hear what Miss Mauhray has to say, and 
I '11 lunch with Lady May to-morrow. 1 
suspect that her visit to-day was to Mortlake.” 

With these reflections, Mr. Lonijc;! use's 
pace became Irrisker, and his countenance 
brightened. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

A HOPE EXPIRES. 

Mr. Longcluse knocked at Mr. Arden’s 
door. Yes, Miss Mauhray was at'home. He 
mounted the stairs, and was duly announced 
at the drawing-room door, and saw the bril- 
liant young lady, who received him very 
graciously. 

Slie was alone. 

Mr. Longcluse began by saying that the 
.weather was cooler, and the sun much less 
intolerable. 

“I Avish we could say as much for the 
people, though, indeed, they are cool enough. 
There are some people called Tramways; 
he's a baronet — a vcj-y new one. Do you 
knoAv anything of them? Are they people 
one can know ?" 


“ I only know that Lady Tramways cliap- 
croned a very charming young Indy, whom 
everybody is very glad to know, to Lady 
May’s garden-party the other day, at Rich- 
mond." 

*• Yes, very true : I 'm that young lady, 
and tliat is the very reason I want to know. 
My uncle placed me in their hands." 

“Oh, he knows everybody." 

“Yes, and .every one, which is quite 
another tiling; and the Avoman has never 
given me an hour’s quiet since. She pre- 
sents me with bouquets, and fruit, ami evei-y 
imaginable thing 1 don't want, hersedf in- 
eluded, at least once a day ; and I assure you 
I live in hourly terror of her getting Into the 
drawing-room. You don't know anything 
about them?" 

“ I only knoAV that her husband made a 
great deal of money by some contract." 

“ That sounds very badly; and she is such 
a vulgar Avoman ! ” 

“ I know no more of them ; but Lady May 
had her to Raleigh Hall, and surely she can 
satisfy your scruples." 

“No; it Avas my guardian who asked for 
their cards, so that goes for nothing. It is 
really too bad." 

“My heart bleeds for you/* 

“ By-the-by, talking of Lady May, I had 
a yisit from her not a quarter of an hour 
ago. What a fuss our friends at Mortlake 
do make about the death of that disagreea- 
ble old man ! — Alice, I mean. Richard 
Arden bears it wonderfully. When did you 
see either? " she asked nuocentlv. 



123 


CHE C K MATE. 


“ You forget he has not been dead three 
weeks, and Alloe Arden is not likely to see 
any one but very intimate friends for a long 
time; and — and 1 dare say yon have heard 
that Sir Uiohard Arden and I are not on 
very pleasant terms.’’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! Pity such difference should l)e — 

“Thanks, and Tweedledum and Tweedle- 
dee are not likeU" to make it up. I’m afraid 
people aren’t, always reasonable, you know, 
and expect, often, tilings that are not quite 
fair.” 

“ He ought to marry some one with moneyq 
and give up play.” 

“What! give up play, and commence 
husband? I’m afraid he’d think that a 
rather dull life.” 

“Well, I’m sure I’m no judge of that, 
although I give an opinion. Whatever he 
may be, you have a very staunch friend in 
Lady May.” 

“I’m glad of that ; she ’s always so kind.” 
And he looked rather oddly at the young 
lady. 

Perhaps she seemed conscious of acknowl- 
edge more than she had yet divulged. 

This young lady was, I need not tell you, 
a little coarse. She had, Avhen she liked, 
the frankness that can come ]»retty boldly 
to the point; but I think she could be sly 
enough when she pleased ; and was she just 
a little mischievous? 

“ Lady May has been talking to mo a great 
deal about Alice Arden. She has been to 
see iier very often since that poor old man 
died, and she says — she says, Mr. Long- 
cluse — will you be upon honor not to repeat 
this? ” 

“Certainly, upon my honor.” 

“ Well, she says ” 

Miss Maul)ray got up quickly, and settled 
some flowers over the chimney-piece. 

“ She says that there is a coolness in that 
quarter also.” 

“I don’t quite see,” said Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Well, 1 must tell you she has taken me 
into council, and told me a great deal ; and 
she spoke to Alice, and wrote to her. Did 
she say she would show you the answer? 1 
have got it; she left it with me, and asked 
me — she bs so good-naturecr — to use my in- 
fluence — she said my influence ! She ought 
to know I ’ve no influence.” * 

Longcluse felt very oddly indeed during 
this speech ; he had still presence of mind 
not to add anything to the knowledge the 
young lady might actually possess. 

“ You have not said a great deal, you 
know ; but Lady May certainly did promise 
to show me an an.swer which she expected 
to a letter she Avrote about three Aveeks ago, 
or less, to Miss Arden.” 

“ I really don’t know of what use I can be 
in the matter. I have no excuse for speaking 
to Alice on the subject of her note — none in 
the world. I think I may as well let you 
see it ; but you will promise — you have 
promised — not to tell any one? ” 


“I have — I do — I promise. Lady May 
lierself said she Avould shuAV me that letter.” 

“ Well, I can’t, I suppose, be very wrong. 
It is only a note: it does not say much, but 
quite enough. I’m afraid, to make it useless, 
and almost impertinent, for me, or any one 
else, to say a Avord more on the subject to 
Alice Arden.” 

All this time she Avas opening a vei'y pret- 
ty marqueterie Avriting-desk, on spiral logs, 
Avhich Longcluse had been listlessly admir- 
ing, little thinking Avhat It contained. 

She noAv produced a little note, Avhich, dis- 
engaging from its envelope, she placed in the 
hand that Mr. Longcluse extended to re- 
ceive it. 

“ I do so hope,” she .said, as slie gave it to 
h‘im, “ that I am doing Avhat Lady May Avould 
wish. I think she shrank a little from show- 
ing it to 3^)11 herself, but I am certain she 
wished you to knoAv Avhat Avas in it.” 

He opened it quickly. It ran thus (“ Mer- 
ry,” I must remark, Avas a pet name, origi- 
nating, perhaps, in Shakspeare’s song that 
speaks of “ the merrv, merry month of 
May”): 

“ Deauest Merrt : — I hopo yon \s'ill come to see me to- 
morrow. I cannot yet bear tli(3 idea of going into town. 

I feel as if I never should, and 1 think 1 grow more and 
more raiscralde every day. You are one of the very few 
friends whom I can see. You can't think what a plea-sure 
a call from yon i.s — if, indeed, in my miserable state, I 
can call anything a i)lea>nre. J have read your letter 
about Mr. la)iigclu>o, and parts of it a little pnz/.lo me. . 
1 can’t say thai 1 liave anything to forgive, and 1 am .“uru 
he has acted just as kindly a.s you say. But onr acqnaim- 
ance has ended, and nothing shall ever induce me to re- 
new it. 1 can give you lifty reasons, when I see yon. for 
my not choosing to know him Darling Merry. I have 
quite made up my mind upon this point. 1 don t know 
Mr. Longcluse, and I won't know Mr. Longcluse; and 
I’ll tell you all my reasons, if yon wish to hear them, 
when we meet. Some of them, which seem to me more 
than sulHcient, you do know. The only condition 1 make 
is that you don’t discuss them with me. I have grown 
so stnpiil that I really cannot. I only know that 1 am 
right, and that notidvg can change me. Ooino, darling, 
and see me very soon. Y’ou have no idea how vtuy 
wretched I am. But I do not complain ; it has drawn me, 

1 hope, to higher and better thoughts Tlie world i.s not 
what it was to me, and 1 pray it never may he. Ci>ine and 
see me soon, darling ; you cannot think how 1 long to soO 
you. — Your affectionate Alice Arden.” 

“ Whilt niotintairis* of mole-bills!” said 
Mr. Longcluse, very gently, smiling with a 
little shrug, as be placed the letter ngaiu iu 
Miss Maubray’s htind. 

“ Making such a fuss about tliat poor old 
man’s death ! It certainly does look a little 
like a pretty affectation. Lsn ’t that Avhat you 
mean ? He was so ins iiypor table I ” 

“ No, I know nothing about that. I mean 
such a ridiculous fuss about nothing. Why, 
people are dropped every for much less 
reason. Sir Reginald chose to talk over his 
mone}’ matters with me, and I think he ex- 
pected me to do things which no stranger 
could be reasonably invited to do. And I 
suppose, now that he is gone, Miss Arden 
resents my insensibility to Sir Reginald’s 
hints ; and I dare say Sir Richard, AA'ho, I 
may say, on precisely similar grounds, 
chooses to quarrel with me, does not spare 
invective, and has, of course, a friendly 


124 


CHECKMATE. 


listener in his sister.. But how absurdly 
provoking that Lady May should have made 
such a diplomacy, and given herself so much 
trouble! And — I’m afraid I appear so 
foolish — I merely assented to Lady May’s 
kind proposal to mediate, and 1 could not, 
of course, appear to think it a less important 
mission than she did; and — where are you 
going — Scotland? Italy?” 

“ iMy guardian, Mr. Arden, has not yet 
settled anything,” she answered; and upon 
this, Mr. Longcluse began to recommend, 
and with much animation to describe, sev- 
eral routes, and then he told her all his gos- 
sip, and took his leave, apparently in very 
happy spirits. 

1 doubt very much whether the face can 
ever be taught to lie as implicitly as lan- 
guage can. Its muscles, of course, can be 
trained; but the young lady thought that 
Mr. Longcluse’s pallor, as he smiled and re- 
turned tlie note, was more intense, and his 
dark eyes strangely tierce. 

“ He was more vexed than he cared to 
say,” thought the yitung lady. “ Lady May 
has not told me the whole story yet. There 
has been a great deal of tibbing, but I shall 
know it all.” 

Mr. Longcluse had to dine out. He drove 
home to dress. On arriving, he first sat down 
and wrote a note to Lady May. 

“ Dear Lady May : — I am so grateful. Miss Maubray 
told me to-day all the trouble you have been taking for 
me. 1‘ray think no more of that little vexation. 1 never 
took so Serious a view of so commonidacij an unplensant- 
uess as to dream of tasking your kindness so severely. 1 
uin quite ashamed of having given you so much trouble. 

. — Yours, dear Lady May, sincerely, 

“Walter Longcluse. 

“P S. — I don’t forget your kind iuvitatiou to lunch 
to-morrow.” 

Longcluse dispatched this note, and then 
wrote a few words of apology to the giver 
of the city dinner, to which he had intended 
to go. He could not go. He was very much 
agitated; he knew that he could not endiu'e 
the long constraint of that banquet. He 
was uutit, for the present, to have the com- 
pany of any one. Gloomy and melancholy 
was the pale face of this man, as if he were 
going to the funeral of his darling, when he 
stepped from his door in the dark. Was he 
going to walk out to Mortlake and shoot 
himself on the steps? 

As Mr. Longcluse walked into town, he 
caught a passing sight of a handsotne young 
face that jarred upon him. It was that of 
Richard Arden, who was walking, also alone, 
not under any wild impulse, but to keep an 
appointment. 

This handsome face appeared for a moment 
gliding by, and was lost. Melancholy and 
thougiitful he looked, and quite unconscious 
of the near vicinity of his pale a<lversary. 

We shall follow him to his place of ren- 
dezvous. 

He walked quickly by Pall Mall, and down 
Parliament Street, into the ancient quarjter 
of Westminster, turned into a street near 
the Abbe}’, and froin it into another that ran 


toward the river. Here were tall and dingy 
mansions, some of which were let out as 
chambers. 

In one of these, in a room over the front 
drawing-room, Mr. Levi received his West- 
end clients ; and here, by appointment, he 
awaited Sir Richard Arden. 

The young baronet, a little paler, and 
with the tired look of a man who was made 
acquainted with care, entered this room, hot 
with the dry atmosphere of gas-light. With 
his back toward the door, and his feet on the 
fender, smoking, sat Mr. Levi. 

Sir Richard did not remove his hat, and 
he stood by the table, which he shipped once 
or twice sharply with his stick. Mr. Levi 
turned tdtout. looking, in his own phrase, 
unusually *• down in the mouth,” and his 
big black eyes were glowing angrily. 

“Ho! Shir Richard Harden,” he said, 
rising, “ I did not think we was sho near 
the time. Izh it a bit too soon ? ” 

“ A little later than the time I named.” 

“Crikey! sho it izh.” 


CHAPTER LVII. 

LEVl’s APOLOGUE. 

The room had once been a stately one. 
Three tall windows looked toward the street. 
Its cornices and door-cases were ponderous, 
and its furniture was heterogeneous, and 
presented the contrasts that might be ex- 
pected ill a broker’s store. A second-hand 
Turke}'^ carpet, in a very dusty state, cov- 
ered [lart of the floor ; and a dirty canvas 
sack lay by the door, for people coming in 
to rub their feet on. The table was a round 
one, that turned on a pivot; it was oak, mas- 
sive and carved, with drawers; there were 
two huge gilt arm-chairs covered with 
Utreclit velvet, a battered office-stool, and 
two or three bedroom chairs that did not 
match. There were two great iron safes on 
tressels. On the top of one was some valu- 
able old china, and on the other an electrify- 
ing machine ; a French. harp with only half- 
a-dozen strings stood in the corner near the 
tire-place, and several dusty pictures of vari- 
ous ttizes leaned with their faces against 
the wall. A jet of gas burned right over 
the table, and had blackened the ceiling by ^ 
long use, and a dip candle, from which Mr. 
Levi lighted his cigars, burned in a brass 
candlestick on the hob of the empty grate. 
Over everything lay a dark gray drift of 
dust. And the two figures, the elegant 
young man in deep mourning, and the fierce^ 
vulgar little Jew, shimmering all over with 
chains, rings, pins, and trinkets, stood in a 
narrow circle of light, in strong relief against 
the dim walls of the large room. 

“ So you will want that bit o’ money in 
hand ? ” said I\Ir. Levi. 

“ I told you so.” 




CHECKMATE. 


125 


“Don’t you think they ’ll ever get tired 
helpin’ you, if you keep pulling always!) the 
wrong way?” 

“ You said, this morning, I might reckon 
upon the help of that friend to any extent 
within reason,” said Sir Richard, a little 
sourly. 

“Ye’re goin’ fashter than yer friendsh 
li-likesh ; ye’re goin’ al-ash — ye’re goin’ a 
terrible lick, you are!” said Mr. Levi, sol- 
emnly. 

Uis usually pale face was a little flushed; 
he was speaking rather thickly, and there 
came at intervals a small hiccough, which in- 
dicated that he had been making merry. 

“ That ’s my own affair, I fancy,” replied 
Sir Richard, as haughtily as prudence would 
permit. “ You are simply an agent.” 

“Wish shome mufl' would take it off my 
hands; ’shan agenshy that ’ll bring whoever 
takesh it more tr-tr-ouble than tin. By my 
shoul I ’ll not keepsh long ! I ’m bloAvsh if 
I’ll be fool no longer ! ” 

“ 1 ’m to suppose that you have made up 
your mind to act no longer for my friend, 
whoever that friend may be ? ” said Sir 
Richard, who boded no good to himself from 
that step. 

Mr. Levi nodded surlily. 

“ Have you drawn those bills?” 

Mr. Levi gave the table a spin, unlocked 
a drawer, and threw two bills across to Sir 
Richard, who, glancing at them, said: 

“ The date is ridiculously short! ” 

“How can I ’elp ’t? and the interesht 
shlesh than nothin’ : sh-shunder the bank 
terms!) f-or the besht paper going — I’m 
blesht if it aint — it aint f-fair interesh ; the 
timesh short becaushe the partiesh, theysh 
— they shay they ’re ’ard hup, shir, ’eavy 
sharge to pay hoff, and a big purchashe in 
Austriansh ! ” 

“ My uncle, David Arden, I happen to 


know, is buying 
and Lady May 7 


Austrian stock this week 
i^enrose is to pay ofi' a charge 
on her property next month.” 

The Jew smiled mysteriously. 

“ You may as well be frank with me,” 
added Sir Richard Arden, pleased at having 
detected the coincidence, which was strength- 
ened by his having, the day before, sur- 
prised his uncle in conference with Lady May. 

“ If you don’t like the time, why don’t you 
try shorn where elsh? why don’t you try Lon- 
clushe? There’sh a shwell ! Two millionsh, 
if he ’sh worth a pig! A year, or a month, 
’t would n’t matter a tizhy to him, and you 
and him ’sh ash thick ash two pickpockets ! ” 

“ You ’re mistaken ; I don’t choose to have 
any transactions with Mr. Longcluse.” 

There was a little pause. 

“ By-the-by, I saw in some morning paper 
— I forget which — a day or two ago, a let- 
ter attacking Mr. Longcluse for an alleged 
share in the bank-breaking combination ; 
and there was a short reply from him.” 

“ I know, in the Timesh” interposed Levi. 

“ Yes,” said Arden, who, in spite of him- 


self, was always d)-awn into talk with this 
fellow more than he intended ; such was the 
force of the ambiguously confider)tial rela- 
tions in which he found himself. “What is 
thou^-ht of that in the city?” 

“ There ’sh lotsh of opinions!) about it ; 
not a shafe chap to quar’l Avith. If you rub 
Lonclushe one year, he’ll tear you for itsh 
ano’er. Ile’sh a bish — a bish — a bit — hit 
of a bully, is Lonclushe, a)id don’t ahvaysh 
treat ’ish people fair. If you ’ a^c quar’led 
with hi)n, loi^k oush I shay, look oush ! ” 

“Give me the check,” said Sir Richard, 
extendi))g his fingers. 

“ Pleashe, Shir Richard, accept them 
billsh,” replied LeVi, pushing an ink-stand 
toward him, “and I’ll get our check for 
you.” 

So Mr. Levi took the dip candle and 
opened one of the safes, displaying for a 
moment cases of old-fashioned jeweh*y, and 
a nun) her of watches. I dare say Mr. Levi 
and his partner made advances on deposits. 

“Why don’t you cut them confounded 
rashesh, Shir Richard? I’m bleshed if I 
didn’t lose five pounds on the Derh}^ )nvsclf ! 
There ’sh lotsh of field sportsh,” hecontniued, 
approaching the table with his check-book. 
“Didn’t you never shee a ferret kill a rab- 
bit? It’sh a beautiful thing; it takesh it 
shomeAvay doAvn the back, and bit by bit it 
mends!) itsh grip, moving up io-wards the 
head. It is really beautiful, and not a 
shound from either, only you’ll see the rab- 
bit’s!) big eyes lookin’ sho wonderful ! and 
the ferret hangsh on, swinging thish way and 
that like a shna-ake — ’t ish werry pretty ! — 
till it worksh itsh teeth up to Avhere the 
back-bone joinsh in with the brain ; and then 
in with itsh teeth, through the shkull ! and 
the rabbit givesh a sci-eech like a child in a 
fit. Ha, ha, ha! I’m blesht if it aint done 
ash clever ash a doctor could do it. ’T would 
make you laugh. That will do.” 

And he took the bills from Sir Richard, 
and handed him two checks, and as he 
placed the bills in the safe, and locked them 
up, he continued ; 

“ It ish uncommon pretty ! I’d rayther 
shee it than a terrier on fifty rats. The rab- 
bit’s sho shimple — there ’sh the fun of it — 
and looksh sho foolish ; and every rabbit 
had besht look sharp,” he continued, turn- 
ing about as he put the keys in his pocket, 
and looking with his burning black eyes full 
on Sir Richiird, “ and not let a fen*et get a 
grip of hish back ; for if he getsh a good pur- 
chase anywhere, he’ll never let go till he 
hash his teeth in his brain, and then he ’sh off 
with a shqueak, and there ’s an end of him.” 

“ 1 can get notes for one of these checks 
to-night?” said Sir Richard. 

“ The shmall one, yesh, eashy,” answered 
Mr.Levi. “I’m a bachelor,” headded, jollily, 
in something like a soliloquy, “ and when- 
ever I marry I’ll be the better of it; and 
I ’m no muff', and no cove can shay that I 
ever shplit on no one. And what do I care 


126 


CHECKMATE. 


for Lor.clush(3? NotthesniiflT of thlsh oan’le ! ” 
And he snuffed the dip scornfully with his 
lingers, and flung tiie sparkling wick over 
the hanister, as he stood at the door, to light 
Sir Richard down the stairs. a 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

THE BARON COMES TO TOWN. 

Weeks flew by. The season was in its 
last throes; the session was within a day or 
two of its death. Lady May drove out to 
Mortlake with a project in her head. 

Alice Arden was glad to see her. 

“ 1 ’ve travelled all this way,’’ she said, 
“ to make you come with me on Friday to 
the Abbey.” 

“On Friday? Why Friday, dear?” an- 
swered Alice. 

“ Because there is to be a grand oratorio 
of Handel’s. It is for the benefit of the 
clergy’s sons’ school, and it is one that has 
not been performed in England for I forget 
liow many ye:irs. It is Sanl. You have 
heard the Dead March in Saul, of course ; 
every one has ; but no one has ever heard 
the oratorio, and come you must. There 
shall be no one but ourselves — you and I, 
and your uncle and your ])rother to take 
care of us. They have promised to come; 
and Stentoroni is to take Saul, and they have 
the finest voices in Europe ; and they say 
that Herr von Waasen, the conductor, is the 


greatest musician in the world. There have 
been eight performances in that great room 
— oh! what do you call it? — while I w'as 
away ; and now there is only to be this one, 
and I’m longing to hear it; but I won’t go 
unless you come with me — and you need 
not dress. It begins tit three o’clock, and 
ends at six, and you can come just as you 
are noAv ; and an oratorio is really exactly 
the same as going to church, so you hat e 
no earthly excuse ; and I ’ll send out my car- 
riage at one for you ; and you’ll see it will 
do you all the good in the world.” 

Alice had her difficulties, but Lady May’s 
vigorous onset overpow'^ered them, a?id at 
length she consented. 

“ Does your uncle come out here to see 
yon ? ” asked Lady May. 

“Often ; he’s very kind,” she replied. 

“ And Grace Maubray ? ” 

“Oh, yes; I see her pretty often — that 
is, she has been here twice, I think — quite 
often enough.” 

“ Well, do you know, I never could admire 
Grace Maubr.ay as I have heard other people 
do,” said Lady Ma 3 ^ “ There is something 
harsh and bold, don’t you think? — some- 
thing a little cruel. She is a girl that I don’t 
think could ever be in love.” 

“ I don’t know that,” said Alice. 

“ Oh ! really ? ” said Lady May, “and who 
is it? ” 

“ It is merely a suspicion,” said Alice. 

“ Yes — but you think she likes some one 
— do, like a darling, tell me who it is ? ” 
said Lady May, a little uneasily. 




CHECKMATE. 


127 


“ You musi not tell any one, because they 
"would Say it was sisterly vanity, hut 1 think 
she likes Dick.” 

‘‘ So- R. chard ?” said Lady May, with as 
much indifference as she could, 

‘‘ Yes, 1 tliiuk she likes niy brother. 

L.idy May smiled paiid'ul.y. 

‘’1 always thou;»;ht so,” stie said; “and 
lie admires her, ol course? ” 

“ No, I don’t think ho admires her at all. 
I 'm cer.alu he does n’t,” said Alice. 

“ Well, ceria nly he always (hjcs speak of 
her as if she belonged to Vivian Darnle}^” 
said Lady IMay, more happily. 

“ So she does, and he to her, I hope,” said 
Alice. . 

“Hope?” repeated Lady iMay, interrog- 
atively. 

“Yes: I think nothing could be more 
8u. table.” 

“Perhaps so; you know them better than 
I do.” 

“ Yes, and I still think uncle David in- 
tends them for one another.” 

“ I would liavc asked xMr. Longcluse to 
use his influence to get us good hearing- 
places, but he is in such disgrace — is he 
still, or is there any chance of his being for- 
given ? ” 

“ I told you, darling, I have really nothing 
to forgive — but I have a kind of fear of 
Mr. Longcluse — a fear i can’t account for. 
It began, I think, with that affair that seemed 
to me like a piece of insanity, and made me 
angry and bewildered ; and then there was 
a dream, in which I saw such a horrible 
scene, and fancied ho had murdered Richard, 
and 1 could not get it out of my head. I 
suppose 1 am in a nervous state — and there 
were, other things; and. altogether, I think 
of him with a kind of horror — and I find 
that Martha Tanscy has an unaccountable 
dread ol' him exactly as I have; and even 
uncle David says that he has a misgiving 
about him, which he can’t get rid of, or ex- 
plain.” 

“ I can’t think, however, that he is a ghost 
or even a malefactor,” said Lady May, “or 
anything worse than a very agreeable, good- 
natured person. I never knew • anything 
more zealous than his good-nature on the 
occasion I told you of; and he has always 
approached you with so much devotion and 
respect — he seemed to me so sensitive, and 
to , watch your very looks ; I really think 
that a frown from you would have almost 
killed him.” 

Alice sighed, and looked wearily through 
the window, as if the subject bored her; and 
she said, listlessly: 

“ Oh, yes, he was kind, and gentleman- 
like, and* sang nicely, I grant you every- 
thing ; but — but there is something ominous 
about him, and I hate to hear him men- 
tioned, and with my consent I ’ll never meet 
iiim more.” 

Connected with the musical venture which 
the ladiCS were discussing, a remarkable per- 


son visited London, Tie had a considertible 
stako in its success. He was a penurious (ier- 
man, reputed wealthy, wlio ran ovm* frnm 
Paris to com])lete arrangements til'out ticket 
takers and treasurer, so as to ensure a sys- 
tem of check, such as would make it next to 
impossible for the gentlemen his partners to 
rob him. This person was the Baron Van- 
boeren. 

Mr. Blount had an intimation of this visit 
from Paris, and Mr. David Arden invited 
him to dine, of which invitation he took ab- 
solutely no notice; and then Mr. .\rdcn 
called upoTi him in his lodging in St. Mar- 
tin’s Lane. 

'There he saw him, this man. possibly the 
keeper of the secret which he had for twenty 
years of his life been seeking for. 

If he had a feudal ideal of this baron, he 
was disappointed. He beheld a short, thick 
man, with an enormous head and grizzled 
hair, coarse pug features, very grimy skill, 
and a pair of fierce black eyes, that never 
restoil for a moment, and swept the room 
from corner to corner with a rapid and un- 
settled glance that was full of fierce energy. 

“ 'The Baron Vauboeren ? ’’inquired uncle 
David, courteously. 

The baron, who was smoking, nodded 
gruffly. 

“My name is Arden — David Arden. I 
left my card two da 3 ’s ago, and having heard 
that your stay was but for a few days, 1 ven- 
tured to send you a very hurried invitation.” 

The baron grunted and nodded again. 

“ 1 wrote a note to beg the pleasure of a 
very short interview, and you have been so 
good as to admit me.” 

The baron smoked on. 

“I am told that you possilily are pos- 
sessed of information which I have long 
been seeking in vain.” 

Another nod. 

“Monsieur Lobas, the unfortunate little 
Frenchman who was murdered here in Lon- 
don. was, 1 believe, in your employment?” 

'The baron hero had a little fit of coughing. 

Uncle David accepted this as an admission. 

“ He was acquainted with Mr. Long- 
clusc?” 

“ Was he ? ” said the baron, removing and 
returning his pipe quickly. 

“Will you, Baron Vanboeren, be so good 
as to give me any information you possess 
respecting Mr. Longcluse ? It is not, I 
assure you, from mere curiosity I ask these 
questions, and I hope you will excuse the 
trouble I give you.” 

The baron took his pipe from his mouth, 
and blew out a thin stream of smoke. 

“ I have heard,” said he, in short, harsh 
tones, “ since I came to London, nosing but 
good of Mr. Longcluse. I have ze greadest 
respect for zat excellent gendleman. I will 
say nosing bud zat — ze greadest respect.” 

“You knew him in Paris, I believe?” 
urged uncle David. 

“Nosing bud zat — ze greadest respect,” 


128 


CHECKMATE. 


repeated the baron. “I sink him a very 
worzy gendleman.^^ 

“ No doubt; but I venture to ask whether 
vou were acquainted with Mr. Longcluse in 
Paris?” 

“ Zere are a gread many beoble in Paris. 
I have nosing to say of Mr. Longcluse, nos- 
ing ad all, only he is a man of high rebuda- 
tion.” 

And on completing this sentence the 
baron replaced his pipe, and delivered 
several rapid and excited puffs. 

“ I took the liberty of enclosing a letter 
from a friend, explaining who I am, and 
that the questions I should entreat you to 
answer are not prompted by any idle or im- 
pertinent curiosity ; perhaps, then, you 
would be so good as to say whether you 
know anything of a person named Yelland 
Mace, who visited Paris some twenty years 
since ? ” 

“ I am in London, sir, ubon my business, 
and no one else’s. I am sinking of myself, 
and not about Mace or Longcluse, and I will 
not speak about eizer of zem. I am well 
baid for my dime. I will nod waste my 
dime on dalking — I will nod,” he con- 
tinued, warming as he proceeded; “nosing 
shall induce me do say one word aboud zoze 
gendlemen. I dake my oas I ’ll nod, mein 
Gott! What do you mean by asking me 
aboud zem?” 

He looked positively ferocious as he de- 
livered this expostulation. 

“ My request must be more unreasonable 
than it appeared to me.” 

“ Nosing can be more unreasonable ! ” 

“ And I am to understand that you posi- 
tively object to giving any information re- 
specting the person I have named?” 

The baron appeared extremely uneasy. 
He trotted to the door on his short legs, and 
looked out. Returning, he shut the door 
carefully. Ilis grimy countenance, under 
the action of fear, assumed an expression 
peculiarly forbidding; and he said, with 
angry volubility : 

“ Zis visit must end, sir, zis moment. 
Donnerwesser ! I will nod be combromised 
by you. ' But if you bromise as a Christian, 
ubon your honor, never to jnention what I 
say ” 

“ Never, upon my honor.” 

“Nor to say you have talked with me 
here, in London ” 

“ Never.” 

“I will tell you that I have no objection 
to sbeak wis you, privadely in Paris, when- 
ever you are zere — now, now ! zat is all, I 
will not have one ozer word, you shall not 
stay one ozer minude.” 

He opened the door and wagged his head 
peremptorily, and pointed with his pipe to 
the lobby. 

“You’ll not forget your promise, baron, 
when I call ? for visit you I will.” 

“ I never forget nosing. Monsieur Arden, 
will you go or nod f ” 


“ Farewell, sir,” said his visitor, too much 
excited by the promise opened to him, for 
the moment to apprehend what was ridicu- 
lous in the scene or in the brutality of the 
baron. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

TWO OLD FRIENDS MEET AND PART. 

When he was gone, the Baron Vanboeren 
sat down and panted ; his pipe had gone out, 
and he clutched it in his hand like a Aveapon, 
and continued for some minutes, in the good 
old phrase, very much disordered. 

“ That old fool,” he muttered, in his native 
German, “ AA'on’t come near me again while 
I remain in London.” 

This assurance aVrs, T suppose, consola- 
tory, for the baron repeated it several times ; 
and then bounced to his feet, and made a 
few hurrie<l preparations for nn appearance 
in the streets. He put on a short cloak 
which had served him for the last thirty 
years, and a preposterous hat; and Avith a 
thick stick in his hand, and a cigar Lighted, 
sallied forth, square and short, to make Mr. 
Longcluse a visit by appointment. 

By this time the lamps were lighted. 
There had been a performance of Savl, a 
very brilliant success, although it pleased 
the baron to grumble over it that day. lie 
had not returned from the great room, Avhere 
it had taken place more than an hour, Avhcn 
David Arden had paid his brief visit. He 
Avas noAV hastening to an intervicAV Avhich 
he thought much more momentous. Foav 
persons who looked at that vulgar, seedy 
figure, strutting through the mud, would 
have thought that the thread-bare black 
coat, over Avhich a broAvn autumnal tint had 
spread, and the monstrous battered felt hat, 
in which a costermonger Avould scarcely have 
gone abroad, covered a man worth a hundred 
and fifty thousand pounds. 

Man is mysteriously so constructed that 
he cannot abandon himself to selfishness, 
which is the very reverse of heavenly love, 
without in the end contracting some incura- 
ble insanity ; and that insanity of the higher 
man constitutes, to a great extent, his men- 
tal death. The Baron Vanboeren’s insanity 
was avarice; and his solitary expenses 
caused him all the sordid anxieties Avhich 
haunt the unfortunate gentleman Avho must 
make both ends meet on five-and-thirty 
pounds a year. 

Though, not sui profusvs, he was alieni 
appeteiis in a very high degree ; and his visit 
to Mr. Longcluse was not one of mere affec- 
tion. 

Mr. Longcluse was at home in his study. 
The baron Avas instantly shown in. 

Mr. Longcluse, smiling, with both hands 
extended to grasp his, advanced to meet him. 

“ My dear baron ! Avhat an unexpected 
pleasure ! I could scarcely belieA'e my eyes 


CHECKMATE. 


129 


when I read your note. So you have a stake 
in this musical speculation, and though it is 
very late, and, of course, everything at a 
disadvantage, I have to congratulate you on 
an immense success.’’ 

The baron shrugged, shook his head, and 
rolled his eyes dismally. 

“ Ah, my friend, ze exbenses are enor* 
mous.” 

“And the receipts still more so;” said 
Longcluse, cheerfully; “you must be mak- 
ing. among you, a mint of money.” 

“ Ah ! Monsieur Longcluse, id is nod what 
it should be ; zay are all such sieves and rub- 
bers ! I will never escape under a loss of a 
sousand bounds.” 

“You must be cheerful, my dear baron. 
You shall dine with me to-day. I T1 take 
you with me to half-a-dozen places of amuse- 
ment worth seeing after dinner. To-morrow 
morning you shall run down with me to 
Brighton — my yacht is there — and when 
you have had enough of that, Ave shall run 
up again and have a whitebait dinner at 
Greenwich ; and come into town and see 
those fellows, Markham and the other, that 
poor little Lebas saAV play the night ho was 
murdered. You must see them play the re- 
turn match, so long postponed. Next day 
^ve shall ” 

“ Bardon, monsieur, bardon ! I am doo 
old. I have no spirits.” 

“ What ! not enough to see a game of bil- 
liards between Markham and Hood? Why, 
Lebas was charmed so far as he saw it, poor 
fellow, with their play.” 

“No, no, no, no, monsieur; a sousand 
sanks, no, bardon, I canned,” said the baron. 
“I do not like billiards, and your friends 
have not found it a lucky game.” 

“ Well, if you don’t care for billiards, 
we ’ll find something else,” replied hospita- 
ble Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Nosing else, nosing else,” answered the 
baron, hastily. “ I hade all zese sings, ze 
seatres, ze bubbcd-siiows, and all ze ozer 
amusements, I give you my oas. Did you 
read my liddle node ? ” 

“ I did indeed, and it amused me beyond 
measure,” said Longcluse, joyously. 

“ Amuse ! ” said the baron, “ how so? ” 

“Because it is so diverting; one might 
almost fancy it was meant to ask me for 
fifteen hundred pounds.” 

“ I have lost, by zis sing, a vast deal more 
zan zat.” 

“ And, my dear baron, what on earth have 
I to do \yith that ? ” 

“ I am an old friend, a good friend, a true 
friend,” said the baron, while his fierce little 
eyes swept the walls, from corner to corner, 
with quivering rapidity. “ You would not 
like to see me quide in a corner. Y'^ou ’re 
the richest man in England, almost : what ’s 
one sousand five hundred to you ? I have not 
wridden to you, or come to England, dill now. 
You have done nosing for your old friend 
yet : what arc you going to give him ? ” 

9 


“Not as much as I gave Lebas,” said 
Longcluse, eying him askance, with a smile. 

“ 1 don’t know what you mean.” 

“ Not a napoleon, not a franc, not a sou.” 

“ You are jesding ; sink, sink, sink, mon- 
sieur, what a friend I have been and avi to 
you.” 

. “ So I do, my dear baron, and consider 
how I show my gratitude. Have I ever given 
a hint to the French police about the identity 
of the clever gentleman who managed the 
little tunnel through which a river of cham- 
pagne fiowed into Paris, under the barrier, 
duty I'ree? Have 1 over said a Avord about 
the confiscated jeAvels of the Marchioness de 
la Sarnierre? Have I ever asked how the 
Comte de Loubourg’s little boy is, or directed 
an unfriendly eye upon the conscientious 
physician who extricates ladies and gentle- 
men from the consequences of late hours, 
nei-Amus depression, and fifty other things 
that war against good digestion and sound 
sleep ? Come, come ! my good baron ; Avhen- 
ever we come to square accounts, the balance 
will stand very heavily in my favor. 1 don’t 
want to press for a settlement, but if you 
urge it, by Heaven, Pll make you pay the 
uttermost farthing.” 

.. Longcluse laughed cynically. 

The baron looked very angry. His face 
darkened to a leaden hue. The fingers 
which he plunged into his snulf-box Avere 
trembling. He took two or three great 
pinches of snuff before speaking. 

Mr. Longcluse watched all these symp- 
toms of his state of mind Avith a sardonic 
enjoyment, beneath Avhich, perhaps, was the 
sort of suspense with which a beast-tamer 
watches the eye of the animal whose fury 
he excites only to exhibit the coercion which 
he exercises through its fears, and who is 
for a moment doubtful Avhetlier its terrors or 
its fury may prevail. 

The baron’s restless eyes rolled wickedly. 
He put his hand into his pocket irresolutely, 
and crumpled some papers that were there. 
There Avas no knowing, for some seconds, 
Avhat turn things might take,. But if he had 
for a moment meditated a crisis, he thought 
better of it. He broke into a fierce laugh, 
and extended his hand to Mr. Longcluse, 
Avho as frankly placed his own in it. and the 
baron shook it vehemently. And Mr. Long- 
cluse and he laughed boisterously and oddly 
together. 

The baron took another great pinch of 
snuff, and then he said, sponging out, as it 
Avere, as an ignored parenthesis, the critical 
part of their conversation : 

“No, no, I sink not; no, no, surely not. 
I am not fit for alPzose amusements. I can- 
not knog aboud as I used ; an old fellow, you 
knoAv ; beace and tranquillidy. No, I can- 
nod dine with you. I dine with Stentoroni 
to-morroAv ; to-day I have dined Avith our 
ieaore. How well you look ! What nose, 
Avhat tees, Avhat chin 1 I am proud of you. 
We bart good friends, bon soir, Monsieur 


130 


CHECKMATE. 


Lotigcluse, farewell. I am already a little 
lade/^ 

“ Farewell, dear baron. How can I thank 
you enough for this kind meeting? Try one 
of my cigars as you go home.^^ 

Tlie baron, not being a proud man, took 
half-a-dozen, and with a final shaking of 
hands these merry gentlemen parted, an^ 
Lotigcluse^s door closed forever on the Baron 
Vanboeren. 

“ That bloated spider ! mused Mr. Long- 
cluse. How many flies has he sucked ! It 
is another matter when spiders take to catch- 
ing wasps/' 

Every man of energetic passions has with- 
in him a principle of self-destruction. Long- 
cluse had his. It had expressed itself in -his 
passion for Alice Arden. That passion had 
undergone a wondrous change, but it was 
imperishable in its new as in its pristine state. 

This gentleman was in the dumps so soon 
as he was left alone. 

Always uncertainty ; always the sword of 
Damocles ; always the little reminders of 
perdition, each one contemptible, but each 
one in succession touching the same set of 
nerves, and like the fall of the drop (►f water 
in the inquisition, non vi, sed soepe cadendo, 
gradually heightening monotony into excite- 
ment, and excitement into frenzy. 

Living always with a sense of the unreal- 
ity of life and the vicinity of death, with a 
certain stern tremor of the heart, like that 
of a man going into action, no wonder if he 
sometimes sickened of his bargain with Fate, 
and thought life purchased too dear on the 
terms of such a lease. 

Longcluse bolted his door, unlocked his 
desk, and there what do we see? Six or 
seven miniatures — two enamels, the rest on 
ivory — all by difierent hands; some Eng- 
lish, some Parisian ; very exquisite, some 
of them. Every one was Alice Arden. 

Little did she dream that such a gallery 
existed. How were they taken ? Photo- 
graphs are the colorless phantoms from 
which these glowing lifelike beauties start. 
Tender-hearted Lady May has in confidence 
given him, from time to time, several of 
these from her album ; he has induced for- 
eign artists to visit London, and managed 
opportunities by which, at parties, in thea- 
tres, and I am sorry to say even in church, 
these clever persons succeeded in studying 
from the life, and learning all the tints 
which now glow before him. 

If I had mentioned what this little collec- 
tion «'Ost him, you would have opened your 
eyes. The Baron Vanboeren would have 
laughed, and cursed him with hilarious de- 
rision, and a money-getting Christian would 
have been quite horror-struck on reading 
the scandalous row of figures. 

Each miniature he took in turn, and 
looked at for a long time, holding it in both 
hands, his hands resting on the desk, his 
face inclined and sad, as if looking down into 
the coffin of his darling. 


One after the other he put them by, and 
returned to his favorite one ; and at last he 
shut it up also, with a snap, and placed it 
with the rest in the dark, under lock and 
key. 

He leaned back and laid his thin hand 
across his eyes. Was he looking at an image 
that came out in the dark on the retina of 
memory ? Or was he shedding tears ? 


CHAPTER LX. 

“ SAUL." 

The day arrived on which Alice Arden 
had agreed to go with Lady May to West- 
minster Abbey to hear the masterly per- 
formance of Sa7tl. When it came to the 
point, she would have preferred staying at 
home ; but that was out of the question. 
Every one has experienced that ominous 
foreboding which overcomes us sometimes 
with a shapeless forecasting of evil. It was 
with that vague misgiving that she .had all 
the morning looked forward to her drive to 
town, and the long-promised oratorio. It 
was a dark day, and there was a thunderous 
weight in the air, and the melancholy atmos- 
phere deepened her gloom. 

Her uncle David arrived in Lady May's 
carriage, to take care of her. They were 
to call at Lady May's house, where its 
mistress and Sir Richard Arden awaited 
them. 

A few kind words followed uncle David’s 
affectionate greeting, as they drove into town. 
He did'not observe that Alice was unusually 
low. He seemed to have something not 
very pleasant himself to think upon, and he 
became silent for some time. 

“ I want," said he at last, looking up 
suddenly, “ to give you a little advice, and 
now mind what I say. Don't sign any legal 
paper without consulting me, and don't 
make any promise to Richard. It is just 
possible — I hope he may not, but it is just 
possible — that he may ask you to deal in 
his favor with your charge on the Yorkshire 
estate. Do you tell him, if he should, that 
you have promised me faithfully not to do 
anything in ^the matter, except as I shall 
advise. He niay, as I said, never say a word 
on the subject, but in any case my advice 
will do you no harm. I have had bitter 
experience, my dear, of which I begin to 
grow rather ashamed, of the futilijjy of try- 
ing to assist Richard. I have thrown away 
a great deal of money upon him, utterly 
thrown it away. 1 can afford it, but you 
cannot, and you shall not lose your little 
provision." And here he changed the sub- 
ject of his talk, I suppose to avoid the possi- 
bility of discussion. “ How very early the 
autumn has set in this year! It is the ex- 
traordinary heat of the summer. Tlie elms 
in Mortlake are quite yellow already." 


CHECKMATE. 


131 


And so they talked on, and returned no 
more to the subject at which he had glanced. 

But the few words her uncle had vspoken 
gave Alice ample matter to think on, and 
she concluded that Richard was in trouble 
once more. 

Lady May did not delay them a moment, 
and Sir Richard got into the carriage after 
her, with the tickets in his charge. Very 
devoted, Alice thought him, to Lady May, 
who appeared more than usually excited and 
happy. 

We follow our party without comment into 
the choir, wliere they took possession of their 
seats. The chorus glided into their places 
like shadows, and the vast array of instru- 
mental musicians as noiselessly occupied the 
seats before their desks. The great assem- 
bly was marshalled in a silence almost op- 
pressive, but which tVas perhaps the finest 
preparation for the wondrous burst of har- 
monies to come. 

And now the grand and unearthly orato- 
rio had commenced. 

Each person in our little group heard it 
with different ears. I wonder whether any 
two persons in that vast assembly heard it 
precisely alike. 

Sir Richard Arden, having many things 
to think about, heard it intermittently, as he 
would have listened to a bore, and with a 
secret impatience. Lady May heard it not 
much better, but felt as if she could have sat 
there forever. 

Old David Arden enjoyed music, and was 
profoundly delighted with this. But his 
thoughts also began to wander, for as the 
mighty basso singing the part of Saul deliv- 
ered the words — 

“ I would that, by thy art, thou bring me up 
The man whom I shall name,” 

David Arden’s eye lighted, with a little 
shock, upon the enormous bend and repul- 
sive features of the Baron A^nnboeren. What 
a mask for a witch ! ' The travesti lost its 
touch of the ludicrous, in uncle David’s eye, 
by virtue of the awful interest he felt in the 
possible revelations of that ugly magician, 
who could, he fancied, by a word call up the 
image of Yelland Mace. The baron was 
sitting about ten steps in front of him, face 
to face. He wondered he had not seen him 
till now. Ilis head was a little thrOAvn back, 
displaying his ^hort bull neck. Ilis restless 
eyes were fixed now in a sullen revery. 
Ills calculation as to the exact money value 
of the audience was ov^r ; he was polling 
them no longer, and his unresting brain was 
projecting pictures into the darkness of the 
future. 

Ilis face in a state of apathy was ill- 
favored and wicked, and now lighted with a 
cadaverous effect, by the dull purplish halo 
which marked the blending of the fecl>le 
daylight with the glow of the lamp that was 
above him. 

The baron had seen and recognized David ! 


Arden, and a train of thoughts horribly in- 
congruous with the sacred place was moving 
through his brain. As he looked on, impas- 
sive, the great basso rang out — 

“ If heaven denies thee aid, seek it from hell.” 

And the soprano gave f )rth the answering 
incantation, wild and piercing — 

“Infernal spirits, by whose power 

Departed ghosts in living forms appear, 

Add liorror to the midnight hour. 

And chill the boldest hearts with fear; 

To this stranger's wondering eyes 

Let the man he calls for rise.” 

If Mr. Longcluse had been near, he might 
have made his own sad application of the 
air so powerfully sung by the alto to whom 
was committed the part of David — 

“ Such haughty beauties rather move 
Aversion, than engage our love.” 

He might with an undivulged anguish have 
heard the adoring strain — 

“ 0 lovely maid ! thy form beheld 
Above all beauty charms our eyes. 

Yet still within that form concealed. 

Thy mind a greater beauty lies.” 

« 

In a rapture Alice listened on. The 
famous “ Dead March ” followed, interpos- 
ing its melancholy instrumentation, and 
arresting the vocal action of the drama by 
the pomp of that magnificent dirge. 

To her the whole thing seemed stupendous, 
unearthly, glorious beyond expression. She 
almost trembled with excitement. She was 
glad she had come. Tears of ecstasy were 
in her eyes. 

And now, at length, the three parts are 
over, and the crowd begin to move outward. 
The organ peals as they shuflSe slowly along, 
checked every minute, and then again re- 
suming their slow progress, pushing on in 
those little shuffling steps of two or three 
inches by which well-packed croAvds get 
along, every one wondering Avby they can’t 
all step out together, and what the people in 
front can be about. 

In two several channels, through two dis- 
tinct doors, this great human reservoir 
flooded out. Sir Richard had undertaken 
the task of finding Lady May’s carriage, 
and bringing it to a point Avhere they might 
escape the tedious Avaiting at the door ; and 
David Arden, with Lady May on one arm 
and Alice on the other, was getting on ' 
slowly in the thick of this well-dressed and 
aristocratic mob. 

“I think, Alice,” said uncle David, “you 
Avould be more out of the crush, and less 
likely to lose me, if you were to get quite 
close behind us — do you see? — between 
Lady May and me, and hold me fast.” 

The pressure of the stream was so unequal, 
and a front of three so wide, that Alice 
gladly adopted the new arrangement, and, 
with her hand on her uncle’s arm, felt safer 
and more comfortable than before. 


132 


CHECKMATE. 


This slow march, inch by inch, is stranjxely 
interrupted. A well-known voice, close to 
her car, says: 

“ Miss Arden, a word with you.” 

A pale face, with flat nose and Mephisto- 
phellan eyebrows, was stooping near her. 
Mr. Longcluse’s thin lips were close to her 
oar. She started a little aside, and tried to 
stop. Recovering, she stretched her hand 
to reach her uncle, and found that there 
were strangers between them. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

A WAKING DREAM. 

There was something in that pale face 
and spectral smile that fascinated the terri- 
fied girl ; she could not take her eyes off 
him. His dark eyes were near hers; his 
lips were still close to her ; his arm was 
touching her dress ; he leaned his face to 
her, and talked on, in an icy tone little above 
a whisper, and an articulation so sharply 
distinct that it seemed to pain her ear. 

“ The oratorio ! ” he continued : “Hie 
music! The words, here and there, are 
queer — a little sinister — eh? There are 
better words and wilder music — you shall 
hear them some day ! Saul had his evil 
spirit, and a bad family have their demon — 
ay, they have a demon who is always near, 
and shapes their lives for them ; they donT 
know it, but, sooner or later, justice catches 


them. Suppose / am the demon of your 
fnmily — it is very funny, isn't it? I tried 
to serve you both, but it wouldn't do. I'll 
set about the other thing now: the evil 
genius of a bad family; I'm appointed to 
that. It almost makes me laugh — such 
cross-purposes! You 're frightened ? That's 
a pity ; you should have thought of that be- 
fore. It requires some nerve to figlit a man 
like me. I don't threaten you, mind, but 
you are frightened. There is such a thing 
as getting a dangerous fellow bound over to 
keep the peace. Try that. I should like to 
have a talk with you before his worship in 
the police-court, across the table, with a 
corps of clever newspaper reporters sitting 
there. What fun in the Times, and all the 
rest, next morning ! '' 

It was plain to Miss Arden that Mr. Long- 
cluse was speaking all this time with sup- 
pressed fury, and his countenance expressed 
a sort of smiling hatred that horrified her. 

“ I 'm not bad at speaking ray mind,'' he 
continued. “It is unfortunate that I am so 
Avell thought of and listened to in London. 
Yes, people mind what I say a good deal. I 
rather think they'll choose to believe my 
story. But there 's another way, if you 
don't like that. Your brother 's not afraid ; 
he '11 protect you. Tell your brother what a 
miscreant I am, and send him to me — do, 
pray ! Nothing on earth I should like better 
than to have a talk with that young gentle- 
man. Do, pray, send him, I entreat. He 'd 
like satisfaction — ha, ha! — and, by Heaven, 
I '11 give it him ! Tell him to get his pistols 



CHECKMATE. 


133 


ready; he shall have his shot! Lot liim 
come to BoulojE^ne, or -where he likes — I’ll 
stand it — and I don’t think he’ll need to 
pay his way back again. lie’ll stay in 
France ; he ’ll not walk in at your hall-door, 
and call for luncheon, I promise -vmu. lla, 
ha, ha!” 

This pale man enjoyed her terror cruelly. 

“ I ’m not worthy to speak to you, I be- 
lieve — eh? That’s odd, for the time isn’t 
far off when you ’ll pray to God I may have 
mercy on you. You had no business to en- 
courage me. I ’m afraid the crowd is getting 
on very slowly, but 1 ’ll try to entertain you : 
you are such a good listener ! ” 

Miss Arden often wondered afterwards at 
her own passiveness through all this. There 
were, no doubt, close by, many worthy 
citizens, fathers of families, who would have 
taken her for a few minutes under their 
protection with honest alacrity. But it was 
a fascinatidn ; her state was cataleptic ; and 
she could no more escape than the bird that 
is throbbing in the gaze of a snake. 

The cold murmur went distinctly on and 
on : 

“Your brother will probably think I 
should treat you more ceremoniously. Don’t 
you agree with him? Dray, do complain to 
him. Pray, send him to me, and I ’ll thank 
him for his share in this matter. He wanted 
to make it a match between us — I ’m speak- 
ing coarsely, for the sake of distinctness — 
till a title turned up. What lias become of 
the title, by-the-by ? — I don’t see him here. 
'I'he peer wasn’t in the i-unning, after all: 
did n’t even start! Ila, ha, ha! Remember 
me to your brother, pray, and tell him the 
day will come when he’ll not need to be 
reminded of me : I ’ll take care of that. x\nd 
so Sir Richard is doomed to disappointment ! 
It is a world of disappointment. The earl is 
nowhere ! And the proudest family on 
earth — what is left of it? — looks a little 
foolish. And well it may: it has many 
follies to expiate. You had no business en- 
couraging me, and you are foolish enough 
to be terribly afraid now — ha, ha, ha! 
Too late, eh? I dare say you think I’ll 
punish you! Not I: nothing of the sort! 
I’ll never punish anyone. Why should I 
take that trouble about you? Not I: not 
even your brother. Fate does that. Fate 
has always been kind to me, and hit my 
enemies pretty hard. You had no business 
encouraging me. Remember this: the day 
is not far off when you will hoili rue the hour 
you cheated me ! ” 

She was gazing helplessly into that dread- 
ful countenance. 

There was a cruel elation in his face. He 
looked on her, I think, with admiration. 
Mixed with his hatred, did there remain a 
fraction of love ? 

On a sudden the voice, which was the only 
sound she heard, was in her ear no longer. 
The face which had transfixed her gaze was 
gone. 


L'mgcluse had app.arently pushed a way 
for her to her friends, for she i'ouiid herself 
again next her uncle David. Holding his 
arm fast, she looked round quickly for a mo- 
ment: she s:iw Mr. Longcluse no-where. She 
felt on the point of fainting. 

'J’he scene must have lasted a shorter time 
than she suj)posed, for her uncle had not 
missed her. 

“ My dear, how pale you look! Are you 
tired?” exclaimed Lady May, -when they 
had come to a halt at the door. 

“Yes, indeed; so she does. Are you ill, 
dear?” added her uncle, 

“ No, nothing, thanks, only the crowd. I 
shall be better immediately.” And so wait- 
ing in the air, near the door, they were soon 
joined by Sir Richard, and in his carriage he 
and she drove»home to Mortlake. Lady May, 
taking hers, went to a tea at old Lady El- 
verstone’s ; and David Arden, bidding tliem 
good-by, walked homeward across the park. 
Richard had promised to spend the evening 
at Mortlake with her, and side by side they 
were driving out to that sad and sombre 
scene. As they entered the shaded road upon 
which the great gate of Mortlake opens, the 
setting sun streamed through the huge 
trunks of the trees, and tinted the landscape 
with a subdued splendor. 

“ I can’t imagine, dear Alice, why you 
will stay here. It is enough to kill you,” 
said Sir Richard, looking out peevishly on 
the picturesque woodlands of Mortlake, and 
interrupting a long silence. “ You never 
can recover your spirits while you stay here. 
There is Lady May going all over the -svorld 
— I forget where, but she will be at Naples — 
and she absolutely longs to take you v.dth 
her ; and you -won’t go ! I really sometimes 
think you want to drive yourself mad.” 

“ I don’t know,” said she, waking from a 
revery in which, against the dark back- 
ground of the empty arches she had left, she 
still saw the white, wicked face that had 
leaned over her, and heard the low, mur- 
mured stream of insult and menace. “ I ’m 
not sure that I should not be worse anywhere 
else. I don’t feel energy to make a change. 
I can’t bear the idea of meeting people, By- 
and-by, in a little time, it will be different. 
For the present, quiet is what I most require. 
But you, Dick, are not looking w^ell, you 
seem so over-worked and anxious. You 
really do want a little holiday. Why don’t 
you go to Scotland to shoot, or take a few 
weeks’ yachting? All your business must 
be pretty well settled now.” 

“ It will never be settled,” he said, a little 
sourly. “ I assure you there never was 
property in such a mess — 1 mean leases and 
everything. Such drudgery, you have ito 
idea; and I owe a good deal. It has t)()t 
done me any good. I ’d rather be as I was 
before that miserable Derby. 1 ’d gladly ex- 
change it all for a clear annuity of a thou- 
sand a-year.” 

“ Oh ! my dear Dick, you can’t mean that ! 


134 


CHECKMATE. 


All the northern property, and this, and 
Morley?” 

“ I hate to talk about it. I ’m tired of it 
already. I have been so unlucky, so foolish ; 
and if I had not found a very ^ood friend, I 
should have been utterly ruined by that 
cursed race ; and he has been aiding me very 
generously, on rather easy terms, in some 
difficulties that have followed ; and you know 
I had to raise money oh the estate before all 
this happened, and have had to make a very 
heavy mortgage, and I am getting into such 
a mess — a confusion, I mean — and really 
I should have sold the estates, if it had not 
been for my unknown friend, for I don’t 
know his name.” 

“What friend?” 

“ The friend who has aided me through my 
troubles — the best friend I ever met, unless 
it be as I half suspect.- lias anyone spoken 
to you lately, in away to lead you to suppose 
that he, or any one else among our friends, 
has been lending me a helping hand ? ” 

“Yes, as we were driving into town to- 
day uncle David told me so distinctly ; but 1 
am not sure that I ought to have mentioned 
it. I fancy, indeed,” she added, as she re- 
membered the reflections with which it was 
accompanied, “ that he meant it as a secret, 
so you must not get me into disgrace with 
him by appearing to know more than he has 
told you himself.” 

“ No, certainly,” said Richard ; “ and he 
said it was he who lent it? ” 

“ Yes, distinctly.” 

“ Well, T all but knew it before. Of course 
it is very kind of him. But then, you know, 
he is very wealthy ; he does not feel it ; and 
he would not for the world that our house 
should lose its position. I think he would 
rather sell the coat off his back, than that 
our name should be slurred.” 

Sir Richard was pleased that he had re- 
ceived this light in corroboration of his sus- 
picions. He was glad to have ascertained 
that the powerful motives which he had con- 
jectured were actually governing the con- 
duct of David Arden, although, for obvious 
reasons, he did not choose that his nephew 
should be aware of his weakness. 

The carriage drew up at the hall-door. 
The old house, in the evening beams, looked 
warm and cheery, and from every window 
in its broad front flamed the reflection 
which showed like so many hospitable win- 
ter fires. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

LOVE AND PLAY. 

“ Here we are, Alice,” said Sir Richard, 
as they entered the hall. “We’ll have a 
good talk this evening. We ’ll make the 
best of everything ; and I don’t see, if undo 
David chooses to prevent it, why the old siii[> 
should founder, after all.” 


They were now in the house. It was hard 
to get rid of the sense of constraint that, in 
his father’s time, he always experienced 
within those walls ; to feel that the old in- 
fluence was exorcised and utterly gone, and 
that he was himself absolute master where, 
so lately, he had hardly ventured to move on 
tip-toe. 

They did not talk so much as Sir Richard 
had anticipated. There were upon his mind 
some things that weighed heavily. He had got 
from Levi a list of the advances made by his 
luckily-found friend, and the total was much 
heavier than he had expected. He began to 
fear that he might possibly exceed the 
limits which his uncle must certainly have 
placed somewhere. He might not, indeed, 
allow him to suffer the indignity of a bank- 
ruptcy ; but he would take a very short and 
unpleasant course with him. ' He would 
seize his rents, and, with a friendly rough- 
ness, put his estates to nurse, and send the 
prodigal on a Childe Harold’s pilgrimage of 
five or six years, with an allowance, perhaps, 
of some three hundred a year, which, in his 
frugal estimate of a young man’s expendi- 
ture, would be handvsome. 

While he was occupied in these rumina- 
tions, Alice cared not to break the silence. 
It was a very unsociable tetc-a-tete. Alice 
had a secret of her own to brood over. If 
anything could have made Longcluse, now, 
more terrible to her imagination, it would 
have been a risk of her brother’s knoAving 
anything of the language he had dared to 
hold to her. She knew, from her brother’s 
own lips, that he was a duellist; and she 
♦was also persuaded that Mr. Longcluse was, 
in his own playful and sinister phrase, very 
literally a “ miscreant.” His face, ever 
since that interview, was always at her right 
side, with its cruel pallor and the vindictive 
sarcasm of lip and tone. How she wished 
that she had never met that mysterious man ! 
What she Avould have given to be exempted 
from his hatred and blotted from his re- 
membrance! 

One objectonly was in her mind, distinctly, 
with respect to that person. She was, thank 
God, (juite beyond his power. But men, she 
knew, live necessarily a life so public, and 
have so many points of contact, that better 
opportunities present themselves in case of 
a masculine hatred; and she trembled at 
the thought of a collision. 

AVhy, then, should not Dick seek a recon- 
ciliation with him, and, by any honorable 
means, abate that terrible enmity? 

“ I liave been thinking, Dick, that, as 
uncle David makes the interest he takes in 
3n)ur affairs a secret, and you can’t consult 
him, it would be very well indeed if you 
couM find some one else able to advise, who 
would consult with you when you wished.” 

“Of course, I should be only too glad,” 
said Sir Richard, yawning, and smiling as 
well as he could at the same time: “ but an 
adviser one can depend on in such matters, 


CHECKMATE. 


135 


\ 


my good child, is not to be picked up every 
day/' 

“Poor papa, I think, was very wise in 
choosing people of that kind. Uncle David, 
I know, said that he made wonderfully 
good bargains about his mortgages, or what* 
ever they are called/' 

“I dare say — I don't know — he was 
always complaining, and always changing 
them," said Sir Richard. “ But if you can 
introduce me to a person who can disen- 
tangle all my complications, and take half 
my cares off my shoulders, I '11 say you are 
a very wise little woman indeed." 

“I only know this — that poor papa had 
the highest opinion of Mr. Longcluse, and 
thought he was the cleverest person, and the 
most able to assist, of any one he knew." 

Sir Richard Arden heard this with a stare 
of surprise. 

“ My dear Alice, you seem to forget every- 
thing I told you. Why, Longcluse and I 
are at deadly feud. lie hates me implaca- 
bly. There never could be anything but 
enmity between us. Not that I care enough 
about him to hate him, but I have the worst 
opinion of him. I have heard the most 
shocking stories about him lately. They 
insinuate that he committed a murder ! I 
told you of that jealousy and disappoint- 
ment, about a girl he was in love with and 
wanted to marry, and it ended in murder! 
I 'm told he had the reputation of being a 
most unscrupulous villain. They say he 
was engaged in several conspiracies to 
pigeon young fellows. He was the utter 
ruin, they say, of young Thornley, the poor 
wretch who shot himself some years ago ; 
and he was the principal proprietor of that 
gaming-house in Vienna, where they found 
all the apparatus for cheating so cleverly 
contrived." 

“But are any of these things proved?" 
urged Miss Arden. 

“ I don’t suppose he would be at large if 
they were," said Sir Richard, with a smile. 
“ I only know that I believe them." 

“Well, Dick, you know I reminded you 
before — you used not to believe those stories 
till you quarrelled with him." 

“Why, what do you want, Alice?" he 
exclaimed, looking hard at her. “ What on 
earth can you mean ? And what can possi- 
bly make you take an interest in the char- 
acter of such a ruffian ? " 

Alice's face grew pale under his gaze. 
She cleared her voice and looked down ; and 
then she looked full at him, with burning 
eyes, and said ; 

“ It is because I am afraid of him, and 
think he may do you some dreadful injury, 
unless you are again on terms with him. I 
can’t get it out of my head ; and I dare 
say I am wrong, but I am sure I am miser- 
able." 

She burst into tears. 

“ Why, you darling little fool, what harm 
can he do me ? " said Richard, fondly, throw- 


ing his arms about her neck and kissing 
her, as he laughed tenderly. “ He ex- 
hausted his utmost malice when he angrily 
refused to lend me a shilling in my extremity, 
or to be of the smallest use to me, at a 
moment when he might have saved me, 
without risk to himself, by simply willing it. 
I did n't ask him, you may be sure. An 
officious, foolish little friend, doing all of 
course for the best, did, without once con- 
sulting me, or giving me a voice in the 
matter, until he had effectually put his foot 
in it, as I told you. I would not for any- 
thing on earth have applied, to him, I need 
not tell you ; but it was done, and it only 
shows with what delight he would have seen 
me ruined, as in fact I should have been, 
had not my own relations taken the matter 
up. 

“I do believe, Alice, the best thing I 
could do for myself and for you would be to 
marry," he said, a little sudd’enly, after a 
considerable silence. 

Alice looked at him to ascertain whether 
he was serious. 

“ I really mean it. It is the only honest 
way of making or mending a fortune now-a- 
days." 

“Well, Dick, it is time enough to think 
of that by-and-by, don^t you think ? " 

“ Perhaps so ; I hope so. At present it 
seems to me that, as far as I am concerned, 
it is just a race between the bishop and the 
bailiff which shall have me first. If any 
lady is good enough to hold out a hand to a 
poor drowning fellow, she had better " 

“ Take care, Dick, that the poor drowning 
fellow does not pull her in. Don't you 
think it would be well to consider first what 
you have got to' live on ? " 

*“ I have plenty to live on ; I know that 
exactly," said Dick. 

“What is it?" 

“ My wife’s fortune." 

“You are .never serious for a minute, 
Dick! Don't you think it would be better 
first to get matters a little into order, so as 
to know distinctly what you are worth ? " 

“Quite the contrary; she'd rather not 
know. She 'd rather exercise her imagina- 
tion than learn distinctly what I am worth. 
Any woman of sense would prefer marrying 
me so." 

“ I don't understand you." 

“Why, if I succeeded in making matters 
quite lucid, I don't think she would marry 
me at all. Is n't it better to say, ‘ My adored 
Angelina,' or whatever else it may l3e, ‘you 
see before you Sir Richard Arden, who has 
estates in Yorkshire, in Middlesex, and in 
Devonshire, thus spanning all England from 
north to south. We had these estates at the 
Conquest. There is nothing modern about 
them but the mortgages. I have never been 
able to ascertain exactly what they bring in 
by way of rents, or pay out by way of in- 
terest. That I ptand here, with flesh upon 
ray bones, and well-made clothes, I hope, 


136 


C H E C K M A T E. 


upon both, is evidence in a confused 'way 
that an English gentleman — a baronet — 
can subsist upon tlieni ; and this magnificent 
muddle I lay at your feet with the devotion 
of a passionate admirer of your personal — 
property ! ’ That, I say, is better than ap- 
pearing with a balance-«eheet in your hand, 
and saying, ‘Madam, I pro]>nse marrying 
you, and I beg to present you with a balance- 
sheet of the incomings and outgoings of my 
estates, the intense clearness of which will, 

J hope, compensate for the nature of its dis- 
closures. 1 am there shown in the most 
satisfactory detail to be worth e^actl}'^ fifteen 
shillings per annum, and how unlimited is 
my credit will appear from the immense 
amount and variety of my debts. In press- 
ing my suit I rely entirely upon your love 
of perspicuity and your passion for arith- 
metic, which will find in the ledgers of my 
steward an almost inexhaustible gi’atification 
and indulgence.^ However, as you say, 
Alice, I have time to look about me, and I 
see you are tired. Wedl talk it over to- 
morrow morning at breakfast. Don’t think 
I have made up my mind ; I ’ll do exactly 
whatever you like best. But get to your 
bed, you poor little soul; you do look so 
tired ! ” 

AVirh great afifectipn they parted for the 
night. But Sir Richard did not meet her at 
breakfast. 

After she had left the room some time he 
changed his mind, left a message for his 
sister with old Crozier, ordered his servant 
and trap to the door, and drove into town. 

It was not his good angel who prompted 
him. He drove to a place where he was 
sure to find high play going on, 'and there 
luck did not favor him. 

What had become of Sir Richard Arden’s 
resolutions ? The fascinations of his old vice 
were irresistible. The ring of the dice, the 
whirl of the roulette, the plodding pillage 
of whist — any rite acknowlQdged by For- 
tune, the goddess of his soul, was welcome 
to that keen worshipper. 

Luck was not always adverse; once or 
twice he might have retreated in compara- 
tive safety ; but the temptation to “ back his 
luck” and go on prevailed, and left him 
where he was. 

About a week after the evening passed at 
Mortlake, a black and awful night of disas- 
ter befell him. 

Every other extravagance and vice draws 
its victim on at a regulated pace, but this 
of gaming is an hourly trifling with life, 
and one infatuated moment may end him. 

How short had been the reign of the new 
baronet, and where were prince and prince- 
dom now. 

Before five o’clock in the morning, he had 
twice spent a quarter of an hour tugging 
at Mr. Levi’s office-bell, in the dismal old 
street in Westminster. Then he drove ofi’ 
toward his lodgings, TRe roulette was 
whirling before his eyes, whenever for a 


moment he closed them. He tiiouglit he 
was going mad. 

The cabman knew a pbtee where, even at 
that unreasonable hour, he might huve a 
warm bath ; and thither Sir Richard ordered 
him to drive. After this, he again essayed 
the Jew’s office. The cool early morning 
was over still, quiet London — hardly a soul 
was stirring. On the steps he waited, pull- 
ing the office-bell at intervals. In the .still- 
*ness of the morning, he could hear it dis- 
tinctly in the remote room, ringing unheeded 
in that capacious house. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

PLANS. 

It was, of course, in vain looking for 
Mr. Levi there at such an hour. Sir Rich- 
ard Arden fixncied that he had perhaps a 
sleeping - room in the hou^, and on that 
‘chance tried what his protracted alarm 
might do. 

Then he drove to his town place. He had 
a latch-key, and let himself in. Just as he 
was, he threw himself into a chair in his 
dressing-room. He knew there was no use 
getting into his bed. Fatigued as he was, 
sleep was quite out of the question. That 
proud young man was longing to open his 
heart to the mean, cruel little Jew. 

Oh, madness ! why had he broken with . 
his masterly and powerful friend, Long- 
cluse? Quite unavailing, now, his repent- 
ance. They had spoken and passed like 
ships at sea, in this wide life, and now who 
could count the miles and billows between 
them? Never to cross or come in sight 
again ! 

Uncle David ? Yes ; he might go to him ; 
he might spread out the broad evidences of 
his ruin before him, and adjure him. by the 
God of mercy, to save him from the great 
public disgrace that was now imminent ; 
implore of him to give him any pittance he 
pleased, to subsist on in exile, and to deal 
with the estates as he himself thought best. 
But uncle David was away, quite out of reach, 
xifter his whimsical and inflexible custom, 
lest business should track him in his holi- 
day, he had left no address with his man of 
business, who only knew that his first desti- 
nation was Scotland ; none with Grace 
Maubray, who only knew that, attended by 
Vivian Darnley, she and Lady May w ere to 
meet him in about a fortnight on the Conti- 
nent, wdiere they were to plan together a 
little excursion in Switzerland or Italy. 

Sir Richard quite forgot there w'as such a 
meal as breakfast. He ordered his horse to 
the door, and took a furious two hours’ ride 
beyond Brompton, and returned aTid saw 
Levi at his office at his usual hour, eleven 
o’clock. 

The Jew was alone. His large lowering 

O O 


CHECKMATE. 


137 


eyes Tver^c on Sir Richard as he entered and 
approached. 

“Look, now; listen,’^ said Sir Richard, 
who looked wofully wild and pale, and as he 
seated himself never took his eyes off Mr. 
Levi. “ I don’t care very much who knows 
it — I think I ’m totally ruined” 

The Jew knew pretty well all about it; 
but ho stared and j:];aped in the face of his 
visitor as if he was thunderstruck, and he 
spoke never a word. 

1 suppose he thought it as well, for the 
sake of brevity and clearness, to allow his 
client “ to let off the shteam ” first, a process 
which Sir Richard forthwith commenced, 
with both hands on the table — sometimes 
clenched, sometimes expanded, sometimes 
with a thump, by blowing off a cloud of 
oaths and curses, and incoherent expositions 
of the wrongs and perversities of fortune. 

“ I don’t think I can tell you how much 
it is. I don’t know,” said. Sir Richard 
bleakly, in reply to a pertinent question of 
the Jew’s. “ There was that rich fellow, 
what ’s his name, that makes candles — he ’s 
ahAmys Avinning. By Jove, what a thing 
luck is ! He won — I know it is more than 
two thousand. I gave him I 0 U’s for it. 
lie ’d be very glad, of course, to know me, 
curse him. I don’t care, now, Avho does, 
and he ’d let me owe him twice as much, 
for as long as I like. I dare say, only too 
glad — as smooth as one of his own filthy 
candles. And there Avere three fellows 
lending money there. I don’t know hoAV 
much I got — I was stupid. I signed what- 


ever they put before me. Those things 
can’t stand, by heavens ; the chancellor Avill 
set them all aside. The confounded villains ! 
What’s the Government doing? What’s 
the Government about, I say? Why don’t 
Parliament interfere, to smash those cursed 
nests of robbers and swindlers? Here I 
am utterly robbed — I know, robbed — and 
all by that cursed temptation ; and — and — 
and I don’t know Avhat cash I got, nor what 
I have put my name to ! ” 

“ I ’ll make out that for you in an hour’s 
time. They ’ll tell me at the houshe who 
the shentleman Avazh.” 

“ And upon my soul, that ’s true — I OAve 
the people there something too; it can’t be 
much — it isn’t much. And, Levi, like a 
good fellow — by Heaven, I’ll never forget 
it to you, if you ’ll think of something. 
You ’ve pulled me through so often ; I am 
sure there’s good-nature in you; you 
Avould n’t see a felloAv you ’ve known so 
long driven to the Avail and made a beggar 
of, Avithout — without thinking of some- 
thing.” 

Levi looked doAvn, with his hands in his 
pockets, and whistled to himself, and Sir 
Richard gazed on his vulgar features as if 
his life or death depended upon every varia- 
tion of them. 

“You know,” said Levi, looking up and 
swaying his shoulders a little, “ the old chap 
can’t do no more. lie ’s taken a sh.are in 
that Austrian contract, and ho ’ll want his 
capital, every pig. I told you lasht time. 
Would n’t Lonclushe give you a lift? ” 



138 


CHECKMATE. 


“Not he. He ’d rather give me a shove 
under.” 

“Well, they tell me you and him wazh 
very thick ; and your uncle'sh man, Blount, 
knowshe him, and can just ashk him, from 
himself, mind, not from you.” 

“ For money ? ” exclaimed Richard. 

“ Not at a — all,” drawled the Jew, impa- 
tiently. “ Lishen — mind. The old fellow, 
your friend ” 

“ He ’s out of town,” interrupted Richard. 

“ No, he^sh not. I shaw him lasht night. 
You ^re a — all wrong. He’sh not Mr. 
David Harden, if that’sh what you mean. 
He ’sh a better friend, and he ’ll leave you a 
lot when he diesh — an old friend of the 
family — and if all goeshe shmooth he’ll 
come and have a talk with you fashe to 
fashe, and tell you all his plansh about you, 
before a weeksli over. But he ’ll be at hish 
lasht pound for five or six weeksh to come, 
till the firsht half million of the new shtock 
is in the market ; and he shaid, ‘ I can’t 
draw out a pound of my balanshe, but if he 
can get Lonclushe’s na — ame, I ’ll get him 
any shum he wantsh, and bear Lonclushe 
harmlesh.’ ” 

“I don’t think I can,” said Sir Richard; 
“I can’t be quite sure, though. It is just 
possible he might.” 

“ Well, let Blount try,” said he. 

There was another idea also in Mr. Levi’s 
head. He had been thinking whether the 
situation might not be turned to some more 
profitable account for him than the barren 
agency for the “ friend of the family,” who 
“ lent out money gratis,” like Antonio ; and 
if he did not “ bring down the rate of 
usance,” at all events, deprived .the Shy- 
locks of London, in one instance at least, of 
their fair game. 

“If he won’t do that, there ’sh but one 
chansh left.” 

“ What is that? ” asked Sir Richard, with 
a secret flutter at his heart. It was awful 
to think of himself reduced to his last 
chance, with his recent experience of what 
a chance is. 

“Well,” said Mr. Levi, scrawling florid 
capitals on the table with his office pen, and 
speaking with much deliberation, “ I heard 
you were going to make a very rich match ; 
and if the shettlementsh was agreed on, I 
don’t know but we might shee our way to 
advancing all you want.” 

Sir Richard got up and walked slowly two 
or three times up and down the room. 

“ I ’ll see about Blount,” said he I ’ll talk 
to him. I think those things are payable in 
six or eight days ; and that tallow-chandler 
won’t bother me to-morrow, I dare say. I ’ll 
go to-day and talk to Blount, and suppose 
you come to me to-morrow evening at Mort- 
lake. Will nine o’clock do for you ? and I 
shan’t keep you half an hour.” 

“A — all right, shir — nine, at Mortlake. 
If you want any diamondsh, I have a beoo 
— ootiful collar and pendantsha in that 

X 


shaafe — brilHantsh. I can give you the 
lot three thoushand under cosht prishe. 
You ’ll Ava — ant a preshent for the young 
la — Jidy.” 

“ Yes, I suppose so,” said Sir Richard, 
abstractedly. “ To-m orr ow night- to- m orro w 
evening at nine o’clock.” 

He stopped at the door, looking silently 
at the stairs, and then, without leave-taking 
or looking behind him, he ran down, and 
drove to Mr. Blount’s house, close by, in 
Manchester Buildings. 

For more than a year the young gentleman 
whom we are following this morning had 
cherished vague aspirations, of which good 
Lady May had been the object. 

There Avas nothing to prevent their union, 
for the lady Avas very well disposed to listen. 
But Richard Arden did not like ridicule, 
and there was no need to hurry ; and be- 
sides, within the last half-year had arisen 
another flame, less mercenary ; also, per- 
haps, reciprocated. 

Grace Maubray was handsome, animated : 
she had that combination of air, grace, 
cleverness, get-up, and fashion which enter 
into the idea of chick. But with him it had 
been a financial, but notwithstanding rather 
agreeable, speculation. Hitherto there seemed 
ample time before him, and there was no 
need to define or decide. 

Noav, you will understand the crisis had 
arriA^ed, which admitted of neither hesitation 
nor delay. 

He was now at Blount’s hall- door. He 
Avas certain that he could trust Blount with 
anything, and he meant to learn from him 
what dot his uncle David intended bestowing 
on the 3'oung lady. 

Mr. Blount Avas at home. He smiled 
kindly, and took the young gentleman’s 
hand, and placed a chair for him. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

FROM FLOWER TO FLOWER. 

Mr. Blount was intelligent; he was an 
effective though not an artful diplomatist. 
He promptly undertook to sound Mr. Long- 
cluse Avithout betraying Sir Richard. 

Richard Arden did not allude to his losses. 
He took good care to appear as nearly as 
possible as usual. When he confessed his 
iendre f)r Miss Maubray, the grave gentle- 
man smiled brightly, and took him by the 
hand. 

“If you should marry the young lady, 
mark you, she will haA^e sixty thousand 
pounds down, and sixty thousand more after 
Mr. DaAud Arden’s death. That is splendid, 
sir, and I think it will please him very 
much.” 

“ I have suffered a great deal, Mr. Blount, 
by neglecting his advice hitherto. It shall 
be my chief object, henceforward, to reform. 


CHECKMATE. 


139 


and to live according to his wishes. I be- 
lieve people canH learn wisdom without 
suffering.’' 

“Will you take a biscuit and a glass of 
sherry, Sir Richard ? " asked Mr. Blount. 

“Nothing, thanks," said Sir Richard. 
“ You know, I 'm not as rich as I might 
have been, and marriage is a very serious 
step ; and you are one of the oldest and 
most sensible friends I have, and you'll 
understand that it is only right that I should 
be very sure before taking such a step, in- 
volving not myself only, but another who 
ought to be dearer still, that there should be 
no mistake about the means on which we 
may reckon. Are you quite sure that my 
uncle’s intentions are still exactly what you 
mentioned? " 

“ Perfectly ; he authorized me to say so 
two months ago, and on the eve of his de- 
parture on Friday last he repeated his in- 
structions." 

Sir Richard, in silence, shook the old man 
very cordially by the hand, and was gone. 

As he drove to his house in May Fair, Sir 
Richard’s thoughts, among other things, 
turned again upon the question, “ Who could 
his mysterious benefactor be? " 

Once or twice had dimly visited his mind 
a theory which, ever since his recent con- 
versation with Mr. Levi, had been growing 
more solid and vivid. 

An illegitimate brother of his father's, 
Edwin Raikes, had gone out to Australia 
early in life, with a purse to which three 
brothers, the late Sir Reginald, Harry, and 
David, had contributed. He had not main- 
tained any correspondence with English 
friends and kindred ; but rumors from time 
to time reached home that he had amassed 
a fortune. His feelings to the family of Arden 
had always been kindly. He was older, he 
knew, than his uncle David, and had well 
earned a retirement from the life of exertion 
and exile which had consumed all the vigor- 
ous years of his manhood. Was this the “ old 
party " for whom Mr. Levi was acting ? 

With this thought opened a new and splen- 
did hope upon the mind of Sir Richard. 
Here was a fortune, if rumor spoke truly, 
which, combined with David Arden’s, would 
be amply sufficient to establish the old 
baronetage upon a basis of solid magnificence 
such as it had never rested on before. 

It would not do. however, to wait for this. 
The urgency of the situation demanded im- 
mediate action. 

Sir Richard made an elaborate toilet, 
after which, in a hansom, he drove to Lady 
May Penrose's. 

If our hero had fewer things to think 
about he would have gone first, I fancy, to 
Miss Grace Maubray. It could do no great 
harm, however, to feel his way a little with 
Lady xMay, he thought, as he chatted with 
that plump alternative of his tender di- 
Icmi^a. 

But in this wooing there was a difficulty 


of a whimsical kind. Poor Lady May was 
so easily won, and made so many openings 
for his advances, that he was fairly at his 
wit's ends to find evasions by which to post- 
pone the happy crisis which she palpably 
expected. He did succeed, however; and 
with a promise of calling again, with the 
lady's permission, that evening, he took his 
leave. 

Before making his call at his uncle’s house, 
in the hope of seeing Grace Maubray, he 
had to return to Mr. Blount, in Manchester 
Buildings, where he hoped to receive from 
that gentleman a report of his interview 
with Mr. Longcluse 

I shall tell you here what that report re- 
lated. 

Mr. Longcluse was fortunately still at his 
house when Mr. Blount called, and immedi- 
ately admitted him. 

Mr. Longcluse's horse and groom were at 
the door ; he was on the point of taking his 
ride. His gloves and whip were beside him 
on the table as Mr. Blount entered. 

Mr. Blount made his apologies, and was 
graciously received. His visit was, in truth, 
by no means unwelcome. 

“ Mr. David Arden very well, I hope?" « 

“ Quite well, thanks. He has left town." 

“ Indeed ! And where has he gone — the 
moors ?" 

“ To Scotland, but not to shoot, I think. 
And he's going abroad then — going to tra- 
vel on the Continent." 

“ On the Continent? How hice that is ! 
What part ? " 

“ Switzerland and Italy, I think," said 
Mr. Blount, omitting all mention of Paris, 
where Mr. Arden was going first to make a 
visit to the Baron Vanboeren. 

“He's going over ground that I know 
very well," said Mr. Longcluse. “ Happy 
man ! He can't quite break away from his 
business, though, I dare say." 

“ He never tells us where a letter will find 
him, and the consequence is his holidays are 
never spoiled." 

“ Not a bad plan, Mr. Blount Won’t he 
visit the Paris Exhibition ? " 

“I rather think not." 

“ Can I do anything for you, Mr. Blount? " 

“ Well, Mr. Longcluse, I just called to ask 
you a question. I have been invited to take 
part in arranging a little matter which I 
take an interest in, because it affects the Ar- 
den estates." 

“ Is Sir Richard Arden interested in it? " 
inquired Mr. Longcluse, gently and coldly. 

“ Yes, I rather fancy he would be bene- 
fited." 

“ I have had a good deal of unpleasant- 
ness, and, I might add, a great deal of in- 
gratitude from that quarter, and I have 
made up my mind never again to have any- 
thing to do with him or his affairs. I have 
no unpleasant feeling, you understand ; no 
resentment ; there is nothing, of course, he 
could say or do that could in the least affect 



140 


C IT E C K M A T E. 


me. It 13 simply that, having coolly re- 
viewed his conduct, I have quite made up 
m}’^ mind to aid in nothing in which he has 
act, part, or interest.’’ 

“ It was not direcihj, but simply as a 
surety ” 

“ All the same, so far as I’m concerned,” 
said Mr. Longcluse, sharply. 

“ And only, I fancied, it might be, as Mr. 
David Arden is absent, and you should be 
protected by satisfiictory joint security.” 

“ I won’t do it,” said Mr. Longcluse, a 
little brusquely ; and he took out his ivatch 
and glanced at it impatiently. 

“ Sir Richard, I think, will be in funds 
immediately,” said Mr. Blount. 

“ How so?” asked Mr. Longcluse. “You’ll 
excuse me, as you press the subject, for say- 
ing that will be something new.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Blount, who saw that 
his last words had made an impression, “ Sir 
Richard is likely to be married, very advan- 
tageously, immediately.” 

“ Are settlements agreed on ? ” inquired 
Mr. Longcluse, with real interest. 

“ No, not yet ; but I know all about them.” 

“ He is accepted, then ? ” 

' “ He has not proposed yet ; but there can 
be, I believe, no doubt that the lady likes 
him, and all will go right.” 

“ Oh ! and who is the lady ? ” 

“ I ’m not at liberty to tell.” 

“ Quite right ; I ought not to have asked,” 
said Mr. Lopgcluse, and looked down, slap- 
ping at intervals the sides of his trousers 
lightly with his whip. He raised his eyes 
to Mr. Blount’s face, and looked on the point 
of asking another question, but he did not. 

“ It is my opinion,” said Mr. Blount, “ the 
kindness would involve absolutely no risk 
whatever.” 

There was a little pause. Mr. Longcluse 
looked rather dark and anxious ; perhaps 
his mind had wandered quite from the busi- 
ness before them. But it returned, and he 
said : 

“Risk or no risk, Mr. Blount, I don’t 
mean to do him that kindness ; and for how 
long will Mr. David Arden be absent.” 

“ Unless he should take a sudden thought 
to return, he’ll be away at least two months.” 

“ Where is he ? — in Scotland ? 

' “ I really don’t know.” 

“ Couldn’t one see him for a few minutes 
before he starts? Where does he take the 
steamer? ” 

“ Southampton.” 

“ And on what day ? ” 

“You really want a word with him?” 
asked Blount, whose hopes revived. 

“ I may.” 

“AVell, the only person who will know 
~ that is Mr. Humphries, of Pendle Castle, 
near that town ; for he has to transact some 
trust-business with that gentleman as he 
passes through.” 

“ Humphries, of Pendle Castle. Very 
good ; thanks.” 


IMr. liOngcluse looked again at his watch. 

“ And porhaps you will reconsider the 
matter I spoke of? ” 

“No use, Mr. Blount — not the least. I 
have quite made up my mind. Anything 
more ? I am afraid I must be off.” 

“ Nothing, thanks,” said Mr. Blount. 

And so the interview ended. 

When he was gone, Mr. Longcluse thought 
darkly for a minute. 

“That’s a straightforward fellow, they 
say. I suppose the facts are So. It can’t 
be, though, that Miss Maubray, that hand- 
some creature with so much money, is think- 
ing of marrying that insolent coxcomb. It 
may be Lady May, but the other is more 
likely. We must not allow that, Sir Richard. 
That would never do.” 

There was a fixed frown on his face, and 
he was smiling in his dream. Out he went. 
His pale face looked as if he meditated a 
wicked joke, and, frowning still in utter ab- 
straction, he took the bridle from his groom, 
mounted, looked about himasifjustaw'akened, 
and set off at a canter, followed by his ser- 
vant, for David Arden’s house. 

Smiling, gay, as if no care had ever crossed 
him, Longcluse entered the drawhig-room, 
where the handsome young lady was writing 
a note at that moment. 

“Mr. Longcluse, I’m so glad you’ve 
come ! ” she said, with a brilliant smile. “ I 
was writing to poor Lady Ethel, who is 
mourning, you know, in the country. The 
death of her father in the house was so aw- 
fully sudden, and I’m telling her all the 
news I can think of to amuse her. And is it 
really ti-ue that old Sir Thomas Giggles has 
grown so cross with his pretty young wife, 
and objects to her allowing Lord Knocknea 
to make love to her ? ” 

“ Quite true. It is a very bad quarrel, 
and I’m afraid it can’t be made up,” said 
Mr. Longcluse. 

“ It must be very ^ad, indeed, if Sir 
Thomas can’t make it up ; for he allowed his 
first wife, I am told, to do anything. Is it 
to be a separation ? ” 

“ At lead. And you beard, I suppose, df 
poor old Lady Glare ? ” 

“ No!” 

“ She has been rolling ever so long, vou 
know, in a sea of troubles, and now, at last, 
she has fairly foundered.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ She has sold her diamonds,” said Mr. 
Longcluse. “ Did n’t you hear ? ” 

“No! Really? Sold her * diamonds ? 
Good Heaven! Then there’s nothing left 
of her but her teeth. I hope they won’t sell 
them.”^ 

“ It is an awful misfortune,” said Mr. 
Longcluse. 

“Misfortune! She ’s utterly ruined. It 
was her diamonds that people asked. I am 
really sorry. She was such fun ; she was so 
fat, and such a fool, and said such delicious 
things, and dressed herself so like a macaw. 


CHECKMATE. 


141 


Alas I I shall never see her more : and peo- 
ple thouj^ht her only use on earth was to 
carry about her diamonds. No one seemed 
to perceive what a delightful creature she 
was. What about Lady May Penrose ? ■ I 
have not seen her since I came back from 
Cowes, the day before yesterday, and we 
leave London together on Tuesday.'' 

“ Lady May I Oh ! she is to receive a very 
interesting communication, I believe. She 
is one name, on a pretty long and very dis- 
tinguished list, which Sir Richard Arden, I 
am told, has made out, and carries about 
with him in his pocket-book." 

“ You're talking riddles ; pray speak plain- 
ly." 

“ Well, Lady May is one of several mar- 
riageable ladies who are to be honored with 
a proposal." 

* “And would you have me believe that Sir 
Richard Arden has really made such a fool 
of himself as to make out a list of eligible 
ladies whom he is about to ask to marry 
him? and that he has had the excellent 
good sense and taste to read this list -to his 
acquaintances ? " 

“ I mean to say this — I '11 tell the whole 
story. Sir Richard has ruined himself at 
play — take that as a fact to start with. He 
is literally ruined. Ilis uncle is away ; but 
I don't think any man in his senses would 
think of paying his losses for him. He turns, 
therefore, naturally to the more amiable 
and less arithmetical sex, and means to 
invite, in turn, a series of fair and affluent 
admirers to undertake, by means of suit- 
able settlements, that interesting office for 
him." 

“ I don't think you like him, Mr. Long- 
cluse ; is not that story a little too like ‘ The 
Merry Wives of Windsor? ' " 

“It is quite certain I don’t like him, and 
it is quite certain," added Mr. Lougcluse, 
with one of his cold little laughs, “ that if I 
did like him, I should not tell the story ; but 
it is also certain that the story is, in all its 
parts, strictly fact. If you permit me the 
pleasure of a call in two or three days, you 
will tell me you no longer doubt it." 

Mr. Longcluse was looking down, as he 
said that, with a gentle and smiling signifi- 
cance. The young lady blushed a little, and 
then more intensely, as he spoke, and, look- 
ing through the window, asked, with a 
laugh : 

“ But how shall we know whether he 
really speaks to Lady May ? " 

“Possibly by his marrying her," laughed 
Mr. Longcluse. “ He certainly will if he 
can, unless he is caught and married on the 
way to her house." 

“ lie was a little unfortunate in showing 
you his list, wasn't he? " said Grace Mau- 
bray. 

“ I did not say that. If there had been 
any, the least, confidence, nothing on earth 
could have induced me to divulge it. We 
are not even, at present, on speaking terms. 


He had the coolness to send a Mr. Blount, 
who transacts all Mr. David Arden's affairs, 
to ask me to become his security, Mr. Arden 
being away ; and by way of inducing me to 
do so, he disclosed, with the coarseness 
which is the essence of business, the matri- 
monial schemes which are to recoup, within 
a few days, the losses ^f the roulette, the 
whist-table, or the dice-box." 

“Oh! Mr. Blount, I 'pi told, is a very 
honest man." 

“Quite so; particularly accurate ; and I 
don’t think anything on earth would induce 
him to tell an untruth," testified Mr. Long- 
cluse. 

After a little pause. Miss Maubray laughed. 

“One certainly does learn," she said, 
“something new every day. Could any 
one have fancied a gentleman descending 
to so gross a meanness ? " 

“ Everybody is a gentleman now-a-days," 
remarked Mr. Longcluse, with a smile ; 
“ but every one is not a hero — they give 
way more or less under temptation. Those 
who stand the test of the crucible and the 
furnace are seldom met with." 

At tlii^ moment the door opened, and 
Lord Wynderbroke was announced. 

A little start, a lighting of the eyes, as 
Grace rose, and a fluttered advance, with 
a very pretty little hand extended to meet 
him, testified, perhaps, rather more surprise 
than one would have quite expected; for 
even Mr. Longcluse, who did not. know him 
at all so well as this young lady did, could 
almost have sworn to his voice — which was 
peculiar, and a little resembled the caw of a 
jay — as he said something to the servant 
before the door was opened. 

Mr. Longcluse took his leave. 

He was not sorry that Lord Wynderbroke 
had called. He wished no success to Sir 
Richard's wooing. He thought he had 
pretty well settled the question in Miss 
Maubray's mind, and, smiling, he rode at a 
pleasant canter to Lady May's. It was as 
well, perhaps, that she should hear the 
same story. 

Lady May, however, unfortunately, had 
just gone* out for a drive. 


CHAPTER LXV. 

BEHIND THE ARRAS. 

It was quite true that Lady May was not 
at home. She was actually, with a charm- 
ing little palpitation, driving to pay a very 
interesting visit to Grace Maubray. In 
affairs of the kind that now occupied her 
mind, she had no confidants but very young 
people. 

Miss Maubray was at home ; and in- 
stantly Lady May's plump instep was seen 
on the carriage-step. She disdained assist- 
ance, and descended with a heavy skip upon 


142 


CHECKMATE. 


the flags, where she executed an involuntary 
frisk that carried her a little out of the line 
of advance. 

As she ascended the stairs, she met her 
friend Lord Wynderbroke coming down. 

They stopped for a moment on the land- 
ing, under a picture of Cupid and Venus ; 
and Lady May, smUing, remarked, a little 
out of breath, what a charming day it was, 
and expressed her amazement at seeing him 
in town — a surprise which he agreeably 
reciprocated. He had been at Glenkiltie, in 
the highlands, where he had accidentally 
met Mr. David Arden. “Miss Maubray is 
in the drawing-room,^^ he said, observing 
that the eyes of the good lady glanced uncon- 
sciously upward at the door of that room. 
And then they parted aftectionately, and 
turned their backs on each other with a 
sense of relief., 

“ Well, my dear,’^ she said to Grace Mau- 
bray, as soon as they had kissed, “ longing 
to have a few minutes with you, with ever 
so much to say. You have no idea what it 
is to be stopped on the stairs by that tire- 
some man — I’ll never quarrel with you 
again for calling him an old bore. . No mat- 
ter, here I am ; and really, my dear, it is 
such an odd afiair — not quite that : such 
an odd scene, I don’t know where or how to 
begin.” 

“ I wish I could help you,” said Miss 
Maubray, laughing. 

“Oh, my dear! you’d never guess in a 
hundred years.” 

“How do you know? Hasn’t a certain 
baronet something to do with it? ” 

“ Well, well — dear me 1 That is vet'y ex- 
traordinary. Did he tell you he was going 
to — to ? Good gracious ! My dear, it is 
the most extraordinary thing. I believe you 
hear everything ; but — a — but listen. Not 
an hour ago, he came — Richard Arden, of 
course, we mean — and, my dear Grace, he 
spoke so very nicely of his troubles, poor 
fellow, you know, — debts I mean, of 
course — not the least his fault, and all that 
kind of thing, and — and he went on — I 
really don’t know how to tell you. But he 
said — he said — he said he liked me, and 
no one else on earth ; and he was on the very 
point of saying everything, when, just at that 
moment, who should come in but that gos- 
sipping old woman. Lady Botherton — and 
he whispered, as he was going, that he 
•would return after I had had my drive. 
The carriage was at the door, so, "when I 
got rid of the old woman, I got into it, and 
came straight here to have a talk with you, 
and what do you think I ought to say? Do 
tell me, like a darling, do I ” 

“ I wish you would tell me what one ought 
to say to that question,” said Grace Mau- 
bray, with a slight disdain; (that young lady 
was in the most unreasonable way piqued,) 
“ for I ’m told he’s going to ask me pre- 
cisely the same question.” 

“ You, my dear?” said Lady May, after a 


pause, during which she was staring at the 
smiling face of the young lady ; “you can’t 
be serious ! ” 

“jHe can’t be serious, you mean,” answer- 
ed the young lady. “And — who’s this?” 
she broke off, as she saw a cab drive up to 
the hall -door. “Dear me! is it? No. 
Yes, indeed ; it is Sir Richard Arden. We 
must not be seen together. He’ll know 
you have been talking to me. Just go in 
here.” 

She opened the door of the boudoir ad- 
joining the room. 

“I’ll send him away in a moment. You 
may hear every word I have to say. I 
should like it. I have to give him a lec- 
ture.” 

As she thus spoke she heard his step on 
the stair, and motioned Lady May into the 
inner room, into which she hurried and 
closed the door, leaving it only a little way 
open. 

These arrangements were hardly com- 
pleted when Sir Richard was announced. 

Grate felt positively angry. But never 
had she looked so beautiful ; her eyes so 
tenderly lustrous under their long lashes; her 
color so brilliant — an expression so maid- 
enly and sad. If it was acting, it was very 
well done. You would have sworn that the 
melancholy and agitation of her looks, and 
the slightly quickened movement of her 
breathing, were those of a person who felt 
that the hour of her fate had come. 

With what elation Richard Arden saw 
these beautiful signs ! 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

A BUBBLE BROKE N. • 

After a few words had been exchanged, 
Grace said, in reply to a question of Sir 
Richard’s : 

“ Lady May and I are going together, you 
know: in a day or two we shall be at 
Brighton. I mean to bid Alice good-by to- 
day. There, I mean at Brighton, we are to 
meet Vivian Darnley, and possibly another 
friend ; and we go to meet your uncle at 
that pretty little town in Switzerland, where 

Lady May I wonder, by-the-by, you 

did not arrange to come with us ; Lady May 
travels with us the entire time. She says 
there are some very interesting ruins 
there.” 

“ Why, dear old soul ! ” said Sir Richard, 
wdio felt called upon to say something to set * 
himself right with respect to Lady May, 
“she’s thinking of quite another place. 
She will be herself the only interesting ruin 
there.” 

“ You vex me,” said pretty Grace, turning 
away with a smile that showed, nevertheless. 


CHECKMATE. 


143 



that this kind of joke was not an unmixed 
vexation to her. “1 don't care for ruins 
myself." 

“ Nor do I," he said, with a shrug. 

“ But you don’t think so of Lady May. 
I know you don’t. You are franker with 
her than with me, and you tell her a very 
different tale.’’ 

“ I must be very frank, then, if I told her 
more than I knew myself. I never said a 
civil thing of Lady May, except once or 
twice, to the poor old thing herself, when I 
wanted her to do one or two little things to 
please youJ^ 

“Oh ! come, you can’t deceive me; I’ve 
seen you place your hand to your heart, like 
a theatrical hero, when you spoke to her, 
and little fancied any one but she saw it.’’ 

“ Now, really, that is too bad. I may have 
put my hand to my side when it ached from 
laughing ; for, poor old soul, you must know 
she is the most ridiculous creature on earth." 

“ IIow can you talk so? You know very 
well I have heard you tell her how accom- 
plished she is, and how you admired her 
music and her landscapes.’’ 

“No, no, — not landscapes: she paints 
faces. But her coloring is, as artists say, 
too chalky — and nothing but red and white, 
like — what is it like? — a piece of currant 
jelly in a dish of cream. Why did not she 
get the late Mr. Etty — she-’s always talking 
of him — to teach her something of his tints? 
It would have prevented her looking so very 
like a female clown.’’ 


“ You are not to speak so of Lady May. 
You forget she is my particular friend,’’ ex- 
postulated the young lady ; but her pretty 
face did not express so'inuch displeasure as 
her words would seem to convey. “I do 
think you like her. You merely talk so to 
throw dust in people’s eyes. Why should 
not you be frank with me ? ’’ 

“I wish I dare be frank with you,’’ said 
Sir Richard. 

“ And why not? ’’ 

“ How can I tell how my disclosures might 
be punished ? My frankness might extin- 
guish the best hope I live for ; a few rash 
words might make me a very unhappy man 
for life.’’ 

“Really? Then I can quite understand 
that reflection alarming you in the midst of 
a tete-d-tete with Lady May, and even inter- 
rupting an interesting conversation.’’ 

Sir Richard looked at her quickly, but her 
looks were perfectly artless. 

“ I really do wish you would spare me all 
further allusion to that good woman. I can 
bear that kind of fun from any one but you. 
Why will you ? You know she is old enough 
to be my mother. She is fat, and painted, 
and ridiculous. Do you think me totally 
without romance ? I wish to heaven I were. 
There is a reason that makes your saying 
all that particularly cruel. Oh, if I dare 
tell it to you — if I dare say why it is ; I am 
not the sordid creature you take me for. 
I ’m not insensible. 1 ’m not a mere stock 
or stone. Never was human being more 


144 


CHECKMATE. 


capable of the wildest passion. Oh, may I 
tell you all ?” 

Was this all acting? Certainly not. Never 
was shallow man, for the moment, more in 
earnest. Cool enough he was, although he 
had always admired this young lady, wljeu 
he entered the room, lie liad made that e: - 
trance, nevertheless, in a spirit quite dra- 
matic. But Miss jMaubray never looked so 
’brilliant, never half so tender, lie tonk fire 

— the situation aiding quite unexpectedly — 
and the tlame Avas real. It might have been 
*>ver as quickly as a balloon on tire. But 
for the moment the conflagration was in- 
tense. 

How was Miss Maubray affected? An 
immensely abler performer than the young 
gentleman who had entered the room with 
his part at his fingers’ ends, and all his looks 
and emphasis arranged — only to break 
through all this, and begin extemporizing 
wildly — she, on the contrary, maintained 
her role Avith admirable coolness. It was 
not, perhaps, so easy; for notwithstanding 
appearances, her histrionic poAvers were se- 
verely tasked ; for never was she angrier. 
Her self-esteem was AAmunded ; the fancy, it 
was no more, she had cherished for him, 
was gone, and a great disgust was there in- 
stead. 

“ You shall ask me no questions till I 
'have done asking mine,” said the young 
lady, with decision ; “ and I will speak as 
much as I please of Lady May! ” 

This jealousy flattered Sir ivichard. 

“And I will say this,” continued Grace 
Maubray, “ you never address her, except 
as a lover, in what you romantic people 
would call the language of love.” 

“ Noav, now, noAA^ ! How can you say 
that ? Is that fair ? ” 

“ You do.” 

“ No, really, I swear — that’s too bad.” 

“ Yes, the other day, when you spoke to 
her at the carriage-window, you did not 
think I heard her — you accused her so ten- 
derly of having failed to go to Lady Ilar- 
broke’s garden-party, and you could n’t say 
what you meant in plain terms, but you 
said, ‘ Why were you false ? ’” 

“ I did n’t, I swear.” 

“ Oh 1 you did ; I heard every syllable ; 
false was the word.” 

“ Well, if I said false, I must have been 
thinking of her hair ; for she is really a 
very honest old woman.” 

At this moment a female voice in distress 
was heard, and poor Lady May came out of 
the pretty little room, in Avhich Grace Mau- 
bray had placed her, sobbing and shedding 
floods of tears. 

“ I can’t stay here any longer, for I hear 
everything ; I can’t help hearing every word 

— honest old woman, and all — opprobrious ; 
oh! hoAV can people be so? hoAV can they? 
Oh! I’m very angry — I’m very angry — 
I ’m very angry ! ” 

If Miss Maubray were easily moved to 


pity, she might hav^e been, at sight of the 
big, innocent eyes turned up at her, from 
Avhieh rolled tears as big as inarbLs, mak- 
ing visible channels through the paint down 
her cheeks. 8he sobbed and Avept like a fat, 
good-natured child, and pitifully she con- 
tinued S'd)bing, “ Oh, I ’m .a-a ho — very en- 
gry ; Avha-at shall I do-o-o, my dear? 1-1 ’in 
very angry — oh, o — I ’rn very a-a-angry ! ” 

“ So am I,” said Grace Maubray, Avith a 
fiery glance at the young baronet, Avhostoo<l 
fixed AA'here he was, like an image of death ; 
“ and I had intended, dear Lady May, tell- 
ing you a thing which Sir Kichard Ard('n 
may as well hear, as I mean to write to tell 
Alice to-day; it is that I am to be married 

— I have accepted Lord Wynderbroke — and 

— and that’s all.” 

Sir Richard, I 'believe, said “good-by.” 
Nobody heard him. I don’t think he re- 
members how he got on his horse. I don’t 
think the ladies saw him leave the room — 
only, he was gone. 

Poor, foolish, gentle-hearted Lady May, it 
is terrible to part from the dream of so many 
years. Better to go with all the beloved 
mistakes about us still and brave the gentler 
parting of death. Was your folly altogether 
a curse? Was it not for many a day tlie 
light of your life, and like other illusions, 
perhaps, as true a blessing as those gifts, 
that, being real, are scarcely less unsubstan- 
tial ? Oh, kind, forlorn spirit; is there balm 
anywhere for those great bleeding wounds? 
Here is the catastrophe of that chronic in- 
sanity, your preposterous love! Farewell 
to the dream, it can never come again. 
Where is the hero of your cloud-built epic ? 
The deini-god has broken up, and vanished 
in a clatter of cruel words and laughter. 
You will see, not him, but his ghost, often 
enough, perhaps ; you will pass liim by Avith 
averted eyes and a look of indifTerence, and 
your foolish old heart will thump, and your 
powdered throat feel choking, as you hear 
liis voice go on and aAvay with others. 

Poor Lady May takes her incoherent leave. 
She has got her veil over her face, to baffle 
curiosity. 

This childless widoAV, without a care, with 
all the world can give, in this luxurious 
draAving-room, between her descent from her 
carriage and her mounting it again, has 
been Avaylaid and brought lovt by the 
miseries and mortifications of life. 

Miss Maubray stood at the window, the 
tip of her finger to her brilliant lip, contem- 
plating Lady May as she got in Avith a great 
jerk and SAving of the carriage, and Tshe 
heard the footman say “home,” and saw a 
fat hand, in a lilac glove, pull up the wiu- 
duAv hurriedly. And as the carriage drove 
aAvay, Miss Maubray, nodding once or twice 
dreamily after it, said : 

“Iliimpty Dumpty sat on a wall, 

Ilunipty Duuipty got a great fall ; 

All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, 
Could not sot up lluinpty Oumpty again,” 


CHECKMATE. 


/ 


145 


and with this prelude, she sat down on a 
sofa, and laughed till she quivered again, 
and tears overflowed her eyes ; and she said 
in the intervals, almost breathless, “ Oh, the 
poor old thing; oh, oh, ho, ho, oh! I really 
am sorry : who could have thought she cared 
so qiuch ? poor old soul ; what a ridiculous 
old thing ! ” 

Such broken sentences of a rather con- 
temptuous pity rolled and floated along the 
merry current of her laughter. 


CHAPTER LXVH. 

“ Done and done, sir. 

Farewell good; 

Prick your finger, 

Sign with blood.” 

The summer span of days was gone; it 
was quite dark, and long troops of withered 
leaves drifted in rustling trains over the 
avenue, as Mr. Levi, observant of his ap- 
pointment, drove up to the grand old front 
of Mortlake,.which, in the dark, spread be- 
fore him like a house of white mist. 

“ I shay,’’ exclaimed Mr. Levi, softly, 
arresting the progress of the cabman who 
was about running up the steps, “ I ’ll knock 
myshelf — wait you there.” 

Mr. Levi was smoking. Standing at the 
base of the steps, he looked up, and right 
and left, with some curiosity. It was too 
dark ; he could hardly see the cold glimmer 
of the windows that reflected the gray hori- 
zon. Vaguely, however, he could see that 
it was a grander place than he had supposed, 
lie looked down the avenue, and between the 
great trees over the gate he saw the distant 
light, and heard through the dim air the 
chimes, far off, from London steeples, suc- 
ceeding one another, or mingling faintly, 
and telling all whom it nfight concern the 
solemn lesson of the flight of time. 

Mr. Levi thought it might be worth while 
coming down in the daytime, and looking 
over the house and place to see what might 
be made of them ; the thing was sure to go 
a dead bargain. At present he could see 
nothing distinctly but the faint glow through 
the hall-windows, which showed their black 
outlines sharply enough. 

“Well, 4e’sh come a mucker, anyhow,” 
murmured Mr. Levi, with one of his smiles 
that showed so wide his white sharp teeth. 

He knocked at the door and rang the bell. 
It was not a footman, but Crozier, who 
opened it. 

The old servant of the family did not like 
the greasy black curls, the fierce jet eyes, 
the sallow face, and the large, moist, sullen 
mouth, that presented themselves under the 
brim of Mr. Levi’s hat, nor the tawdry 
glimmer of chains on his waistcoat, nor the 
cigar still burning in his fingers. 

• Sir Richard had told Crozier, however, 
that a Mr. Levi, whom he described, was 
*10 


to call at a certain hour, on very partic- 
ular business, and was to be instantly a<i- 
mitted. 

Mr. Levi looked round him, and extin- 
guished his cigar before following Crozier, 
whose countenance betrayed no small con- 
tempt and dislike as he eyed the little man 
askance, as if he would have liked well to 
be uncivil to him. 

Crozier led him to a square room, long dis- 
used, still called the library, though not 
many books remained on the shelves, and 
those in disorder. 

It was a chilly night, and a little fire 
burned in the grate, over which Sir Richard 
was cowering. 

Very haggard, the baronet started up as 
the name of his visitor was announced. 

“ Shut the door, come,” said Sir Richard, 
walking to meet him. “Here — here I am, 
Levi, utterly ruined in such a d — d hell, 
you have no idea; listen, there ain’t a soul 
I dare tell how I am beset, or anything to, 
but you. Do, for God’s sake, take pity on 
me, and think of something; my brain’s 
quite gone — you ’re such a clever fellow : 
do now, you ’re sure to see some way out. 
It is a matter of honor ; I only want time. 
If I could only find my uncle David: think 
of his selfishness — good Heaven! was there 
ever man so treated ? and there ’s the bank 
letter — there — on the table; you see it — 
dunning me, the ungrateful harpies, for the 
trifle — wdiat is it? — three hundred and 
something — I overdrew; and that black- 
guard tallow-chandler has been three times 
at my house in town for -payment to-day, 
and it’s more than I thought — near four 
thousand, he says — the scoundrel! It’s 
just the same to him two months hence; 
he ’s full of money, the beast — a fellow like 
that — it’s delight to him to get hold of a 
gentleman, and he won’t take a bill — the 
lying rascal! He is pressed for cash, just 
now — a villain with three hundred thou- 
sand pounds! If liars are damned — and I 
hope to God they are! — he’s earning a 
pretty hot corner ; and those Jew scoundrels ! 
I mean the people, whatever they are, that 
lent me the money ; it turns out, it was all 
but at sight, and they were with my attorney 
to-day, and they w'on’t wait. I wish I w-as 
shot ; I envy the dead dogs roiling in the 
Thames ! By Heaven, Levi ! I’ll say you’re 
the best friend man ever had on earth, J will, 
if you manage something! I ’ll never forget 
it to you. I’ll have it in my power yet! no 
one ever said I was ungrateful ; I swear I ’ll 
be the making of you ! Do, Levi, think ; 
you’re accustomed to — to emergency, and 
unless you will, I’m utterly ruined — ruined, 
by Heaven, before I have time to think! ” 

The Jew listened to all this with his 
hands in his pockets, leaning back in his 
chair, with his big eyes staring on the wild 
face of the baronet, and his heavy mouth 
hanging. He was trying to reduce his coun- 
tenance to vacancy. 


146 


CHECKMATE. 


“ What about them shettlements, Sir Rich- 
ard — a nishe young lady with a ha-a-tful o’ 
money ? ” insinuated Levi. 

“I’ve been thinking over that, but it 
would n’t do with my affairs in this state ; it 
would not be honorable or straight ; put 
that quite aside.” 

Mr. Levi gaped at him for a moment sol- 
emnly, and turned suddenly, and, brute as 
he was, spit on the Turkey carpet. He was 
not, as you perceive, ceremonious, but he 
could not allow the baronet to see the laugh- 
ter that without notice caught him for a mo- 
ment, and could think of no better way to 
account for his turning away his head. 

“ Thatsh wery honorable indeed,” said the 
Jew, more solemnly than ever; “and if you 
can’t play in that direction, I’m afraid 
you ’re in queer shtreet.” 

The baronet was standing close before 
Levi, and at these words from that dirty lit- 
tle oracle, a terrible chill stole up from his 
feet to the crown of his head. Like a frozen 
man, he stood there, and the Jew saw that 
his very lips were white. Sir Richard felt 
that he was ruined. 

The young man tried to speak twice. The 
big eyes of the Jew were staring up at the 
contortion. Sir Richard could see nothing 
but those two big fiery eyes ; he turned 
quickly away and walked to the end of the 
room. 

“ There’s just onfe fiddle-string left to play 
on,” mused the Jew. 

“ For God’s sake ! ” exclaimed Sir Richard, 
turning about, in a voice you would not have 
known, and for fully a minute the room was 
so silent you could scarcely have believed 
that two men were breathing in it. 

“ Shir Richard, will you be so good to 
come nearer a bit? there, that’sh the 
cheeshe ; I brought thish ’ere thing.” 

It was a square parchment with a good 
deal of printed matter, and blanks written 
in, and a law stamp fixed, with an awful 
regularity, at the corner. 

“ Casht your eye over it,” said Mr. Levi, 
coaxingly, as he pushed it over the table to 
the young gentleman, who was sitting now 
at the other side. 

The young man looked at it, read it, but 
just then, if it had been a page of “ Robin- 
son Crusoe,” he could not have understood 
it. 

“ I’m not quite myself, I can’t follow it; 
too much to think of ; what is it? ” 

“A bond and warrant to confess judg- 
ment.” 

“ What is it for? ” 

“ Ten thoushand poundsh.” 

“Sign it, shall I? can you do anything 
with it?” 

“ Don’t raishe your voishe, but lishten. 
Your friend ” — and at the phrase Mr. Lovi 
winked mysteriously— “ has enough to do it 
twishe over; and upon my shoul. I’ll shwear 
on the book, azh I hope to be shaved, it will 
never slice the light ; he ’ll never raishe a 


pig on it, sho’ ’elp me, nor let it out of hish 
’ands, till he givesh it back to you. lie 
can’t ma-ake no ushe of it; I knoivshe him 
well, and he’ll pay you the ten thoushand 
to-morrow morning, and he wantsh to shake 
handsh with you, and make himshelf known 
to you, and talk a bit.” 

“But — but my signature wouldn’t sat- 
isfy him,” began Sir Richard, bewildered. 

“0, no — no, no,” murmured Mr. Levi, 
fiddling with the corner of the bank’s re- 
minder which lay on the table. 

“ Mr. Longcluse won’t sign it,” said Sir 
Richard. 

Mr. Levi threw himself back in his chair, 
and looked with a roguish expression still 
upon the table, and gave the corner of the 
note a little fillip. 

“Well,” said Levi, after both had been 
some time silent ; “ it ain’t much, only to 
write his name on the penshil-line, there, 
you see, and there — he should n’t make no 
bonesh about it. Why, it ’s done every day. 
Do you think I ’d help in a thing of the sort, 
if there was any short of danger? The 
Sheneral’s come to town, is he ? What are 
you afraid of? Don’t you be a shiid — 
ba-ah ! ” 

All this Mr. Levi said so low that it 
was as if he were whispering to' the table, 
and he kept looking down as he put the 
parchment over to Sir Richard, who took 
it in his hand, and the whole bond trem- 
bled so much in his fingers that he set 
it down again. 

“Leave it with me,” he said, faintly. 

Levi got up with an unusual hectic in 
each cheek, and his eyes were very brilliant. 
He still looked down queerly, and his eyes 
wandered from side to side, over the pattern 
of the carpet, and he looked like a man in a 
mysterious sulk. 

“I ’ll meet you at what time you shay to- 
night; you besht take a little time. It ’sh 
ten now. Three hoursh will do it. I ’ll go 
on to my offish by one o’clock, and you come 
any time from one to two.” 

Sir Richard was trembling. 

“Between one and two, mind. D it. 

Shir Richard don’t you be a fool about 
nothing,” whispered the Jew, as black as 
thunder. 

He was fumbling in his breast-pocket, and 
puHing out a sheaf of letters, he selected one, 
which he threw upon the parchment which 
lay on the table. 

“ That’sh the note you forgot in my offisli 
yeshterday, with hish name shigned to it. 
There, now, you have everything: don’t j^ou 
be a fool ; drink a bottle of Madeira.” 

Without any form of valediction, the Jew 
had left the room. 

Sir Richard sat with his teeth set, and a 
strange frown upon his face, scarcely breath- 
ing. 

^ He heard the cab drive away. Before 
him on the table lay the papers. 


CHECKMATE. 


147 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

“Mt words fly CP, MY THOUGHTS REMAIN BELOW; 

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.” 

Two hours had passed, and more, of soli- 
tude. With a candle in his hand, and his 
hat and great -coat on. Sir Richard Arden 
came out into the hall. His trap awaited 
him at the door. 

In the interval of his solitude, something 
incredible had happened to him. It was 
over. He had made up his .mind. A spec- 
tral secret accompanies him henceforward. 
A devil sits in his pocket, in that parch- 
ment. He dares not think of himself. 
Something enormous enough to shake the 
world of London, and set all English Chris- 
tian tongues throughout the earth talking on 
one theme, has happened. 

Does he repent? One thing is certain: he 
dares not falter. Something within him 
once or twice commanded him to throw his 
ci’ime into the fire while yet it is obliter- 
able. But what then? What of to-mor- 
row? Into that sheer black sea of ruin, 
that reels and yawns as deep as eye can 
fathom beneath him, he must dive, and see 
the light no more. Better his chance. 

He wonH think of what he has done, of 
what he is going to do ; he suspects his 
courage. He dares not tempt his cowardice. 
Braver, perhaps, it would have been to meet 
the worst at once. > 

But surely, according to the theory of 
chances, we have played the true game. Is 
not a little time gained, everything? Are 
we not in friendly hands? Has not that 
little scoundrel committed himself, by an all 
but actual participation in the afiair? It 
can never come to Ihat. “I have only to 
confess, and throw myself at uncle David’s 
feet, and the one dangerous debt would in- 
stantly be bought up and cancelled.” 

These thoughts came vaguely, and on his 
heart lay an all but insupportable load. The 
sight of the staircase reminded him that 
Alice must have long sincQ gone to her 
room. lie yearned to see her and say good 
night. It was the last farewell that the 
brother she had known from her childhood 
till now, should ever speak or look. That 
brother was to die to-night, and a spirit of 
darkness to come in his stead. 

He tapped lightly at her door. She was 
asleep. He opened it, and dimly saw her 
innocent head upon the pillow. If his 
shadow were cast upon her dream, what an 
image would she have seen looking in at the 
door ! A sudden horror seized him ; he 
drew back and closed the door; on the lobby 
he paused. If was a last moment of grace. 
He stole down the stairs, mounted his tax- 
cart, took the reins from his servant in si- 
lence, and drove swiftly into town. 

In Parliament Street, near the corner of 
the street leading to Levi’s office, they 
passed a policeman, lounging on the flag- 
way. Richard Arden fancied he would stop 


and question him, and he touched the horse 
with the whip to get quickly by. 

In his breast-pocket he carried his ghastly 
secret. A pretty business if he happened to 
be thrown out, and a policeman should make 
an inventory of his papers, as he lay insen- 
sible in an hospital ; a pleasant thing if he 
were robbed in these villanous streets, and 
the bond advertised, for a reward, by a pre- 
tended finder. A nice thing, good heaven ! 
if it should wriggle and slip its way out of 
his pocket, in the jolting and tremble of the 
drive, and fall into London hands, either 
rascally or severe. He pulled up, and gave 
the reins to the servant, and felt, how grate- 
fully I with his fingers the crisp crumple of 
the parchment under the cloth. Did his 
servant look at him oddly as he gave him 
the reins ? Not he ; but Sir Richard began 
to suspect him and everything. 

He made him stop near the angle of the 
street; and there he 'got down, telling him 
rather savagely — for his fancied look was 
still in the baronet’s brain — not to move an 
inch from that spot. 

It was half-past one as his steps echoed 
down the street in which Mr. Levi had his 
office. 

” D them, every one’s watching to- 

night, I believe,” muttered he, as he saw a 
red light shining through the curtains of the 
garret opposite Levi’s quarters. It was a 
candle in a sick child’s room ; but for him 
it was a hostile camp-fire. 

There was a figure leaning with its back 
in the recess of Levi’s door, smoking. Sir 
Richard’s temper was growing exasperated. 

It was Levi himself. 

Up-stairs they stumbled in the dark. Mr. 
Levi had not said a word. He was not 
treating his visitor with much ceremony. 
He let himself into his office, secured with a 
heavy iron bar, and a lock that made a great 
clang, and he proceeded to light a candle. 
The flame expanded, and the light showed 
well-barred shutters, and the objects with 
which he was well acquainted, refreshed by 
a few new triumphs of art, pieces of out-of- 
the-way furniture, and other rattle-traps. 

When Mr. Levi had lighted a second can- 
dle, he fixed his great black eyes on the 
young baronet, who glanced over his shoulder 
at the door; but the Jew had secured it. 

Their eyes met for a moment, and Sir 
Richard placed his hand nervously in his 
breast-pocket and took out the parchment. 
Levi nodded, and extended his hand. Each 
now held it by a corner, and as Sir Richard 
let go hesitatingly, he said, faintly : 

“ Levi, you would n’t — you could not run 
any risk with that.” 

Levi stood by his great iron safe, with the 
big key in his hand. He nodded in reply, 
and locking up the document, he knocked his 
knuckles on the iron door, with a long and 
solemn wink. 

“ t^liafe! that’sh the word,” said he, and 
he dropped the keys into his pocket again. 


148 


CHECKMATE. 


There w.as a silence of a minute or more. 
A spell was over them ; an influence was in 
the room. Each eyed the other shrinkingly, 
as a man might eye an assassin. The Jew 
knew that there was danger in that silence ; 
and yet he could not break it — as a ghost 
cannot speak till spoken to. He could not 
disturb the influence that was acting on 
Richard Arden's mind. It was his good 
angel's last pleading before the last farewell. 

In a dreadful whisper Richard Arden 
spoke: 

“ Give me that parchment back," said he. 

Satan found his tongue again. 

“ Give it back ? " repeated Levi, and a 
pause ensued. “ Of course I 'll give it back ; 
and I wash my hands of it and you, and 
you're throwing away ten thoush^ndpoundsh 
for nothing” 

Levi was taking out his keys as he spoke. 

And as he fumbled them over one by one, 
Levi said : “ You 'll want a lawyer in the 
Insholwent Court, and you'd find Mishter 
Sholomonsh azh shatisfactory a shentleman 
azh any in London. He'sh an auctioneer, 
too ; and there 'sh no good in your meetin' 
that friendly cove here to-morrow, for he'sh 
one o' them honorable chaps, and he '11 never 
look at you after your schedule 's lodged, 
and the shooner that 'sh done the better ; and 
them women we was courting, won't they 
laugh ? " 

Hereupon, with great alacrity, Mr. Levi 
began to apply the key to the lock. 

“Don't mind — I believe — I believe — 

D it, it 's done ; I 'll not disturb it. 

Keep it; and — by my Almighty Maker!" 
— Richard Arden was trembling violently, 
“ so sure as you stand there, if you play me 
a trick, I '11 shoot you dead, if it were in the 
police ofl&ce ! " 

Mr. Levi looked hard at him, and nodded. 

“Well," said he, coolly, a second time re- 
turning the keys to his pocket, “ your friend 
will be here at the time I said to-morrow, 
and if you please him, as well as he expects, 
who knows wha-at may be. If he leavesh 
you half hish money, you '11 not 'ave many 
bill transhactionsh on your handsh." 

“That will be very nice — I don't see — 
I suppose so — 

“ May God Almighty have mercy on me," 
groaned Sir Richard, hardly above his 
breath. 

“ You shall have the checks then. He'll 
be here, all right." 

“I — I forget ; did you say an hour? " 

Levi repeated the hour. 

Sir Richard walked slowly to the stairs, 
down which Levi lighted him. Neither spoke. 

In a few minutes more the young gentle- 
man was driving rapidly to his town house, 
where he meant to end that long-remembered 
night. 

When he had got to his room, and dis- 
missed his valet, he sat down. He looked 
round, and wondered how collected he now 
was. The situation seemed like a dream, or 


his sense of danger had grown torpid. He 
could not account for the strange indifi'erence 
that had come over him. 

“ I have opened my hand," he said, look- 
ing at the hand he held before him, “ and 
let the bird go ; that bird carries my life. 
Volat irrevocahile. I take it coolly enough 
now. I 'm worn out, perhaps, or my old 
courage has returned." 

He got quickly into bed. It was late, 
and exhausted, and aided, I know not by 
what narcotic, he slept a constrained, odd 
sleep — black as Erebus — the thread of 
which snaps suddenly, and he is awake with 
a heart beating fast, as if from a sudden 
start. A hard, ’bitter voice has said close by 
the pillow, “ You are the first Arden that 
ever did that ! " and with these words in his 
ears, he awoke, and had a confused remem- 
brance of having been dreaming of his 
father. 

Another dream, later on, startled him still 
more. He was in Levi's office, and while 
they were talking over the horrid document, 
in a moment it blew out of the window, and 
a lean, ill-looking man, in a black coat, like 
the famous person who, in old wood-cuts, 
picked up the shadow of Peter Schlemel, 
caught the parchment from the pavement, 
and with his eyes fixed cornerwise upon him, 
and a dreadful smile, tapped his long finger 
on the bond, and with wide paces stepped 
swiftly away with it in his hand. 

Richard Arden started up in his bed, the 
cold moisture of terror was upon him, and 
for a moment he did not know where he was, 
or how much of his vision was real. The 
gray twilight of early morning was over the 
town. He welcomed the light; he opened 
the window-shutters wide. He looked from 
the window down upon the street. A lean 
man in tattered black, with a hammer in 
his hand, just as the man in his dream had 
held the roll of parchment, was slowly step- 
ping, with long strides, away from his 
house, along the street. 

As his thoughts cleared, his panic in- 
creased. His new agony justified the state- 
ment that hell is not a place, but a state. 
Nothing had happened between the time of 
his lying down and his uprising to alter his 
situation and chances, and the same room 
sees him now half mad with horror. Every 
particle of chance against him, every possi- 
ble combination and miscarriage, and every 
aggravation of the catastrophe, that imagi- 
nation could evoke and accumulate, were 
gathered about him. In his torture he 
actually kneeled and prayed to his Maker, 
to carry him through this great strait, and 
to spare him this once the consequences 
of his sin, and that his gratitude for this 
great clemency should never die. 

These agonies, too, are transitory, or at 
least intermittent. Ilis present despair is, 
perhaps, as irrational as his previous insen- 
sibility. It can't be denied, however, that 
he has reasonable grounds for uneasiness. 


CHECKMATE. 


149 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

THE MEETING. 

Near the appointed hour, he walked across 
the park, and through the Horse Guards, 
and in a few minutes more was between the 
tall old-fiishioned liouses of the street in 
which i\lr. Levi's office is to be found. 

He passed by a dingy hired coach, with a 
tarnished crest on the door, and saw two 
Jew'ish-iooking men inside, both smiling 
over some sly joke. What door were they 
waiting at? lie supposed another Jewish 
office sought the shade of that pensive street. 

Mr. Levi opened his office-door for his 
handsome client. They were quite to them- 
selves. 

Mr. Levi did not look well. lie received 
him with a rtod. He shut the door when 
Sir Richard was in the room. 

“ He 'sh not come yet. We '11 talk to him 
inshide." He indicated the door of the inner 
room, with a little side jerk of his head. 
“ That 'sh private. He iiazh that — thing all 
right." 

Sir Richard said nothing. He followed 
Levi into a small inner room, which had, 
perhaps, originally been a lady’s boudoir, 
and had afterward, one might have conject- 
ured, served as the treasury of the cash and 
jewels of a pawn-office, for its door was 
secured with iron bars, and two great locks, 
and the windows were well-barred with iron. 
There were two great iron safes in the room, 
built into the wall. 

“I think he 'sh coming," said Levi, sud- 
denly, inclining his ear toward the door. 

“Who?" asked the young man, a little 
uncertain. 

“Yours — that — your friend, of course," 
said Levi, with his eyes again averted, and 
his ear near the door. 

It was a moment of trepidation, and of 
hope to Richard Arden. 

lie heard the steps of several persons in 
the next room. 

Levi opened a little bit of the door, and 
peeped through, and, with a quick glance 
toward the baronet, he whispered : 

“ Ay, it 's him." 

Sir Richard glanced toward the door 
through which the Jew was still looking, 
and signing with his hand, as, little by little, 
he opened it wider and wider, and a voice 
in the next room, at sound of which Sir 
Richard started to his feet, said sharply, 
“ Is all right ?" 

, “All right” replied Levi, quickly getting 
aside ; and- Mr. Longcluse entered the room. 

Ilis pale face looked paler than usual, his 
thin cruel lips were closed, his nostrils di- 
lated with a terrible triumph, and his eyes 
were fixed upon Arden, as he held the fatal 
parchment in his hand. 

Levi saw a scowl so dreadful contract Sir 
Richard Arden's face — was it pain, or was 
it fury ? — that drawing back as far as the 


wall would let him, he almost screamed, “It 
aint irue ! it aint my fault! I can't help it! 
I could n't! I can't! " His right hand was 
in his pocket, and his left,trembiingviolently, 
extended toward him as if to catch his arm. 

But Richard Arden was not thinking of 
him. Did not hear him. lie sat down 
in his chair. He leaned back with a gasp 
and a faint laugh, like a man just overtaken 
by a wave and lifted half-drowned from 
the sea. Then, with a sudden low cry, he 
threw his hands and head on the table. 

There was no token of relenting in Long- 
cluse's cruel face. lie did not remove his 
eyes from that spectacle of abasement, as he 
replaced the parchment in his pocket. There 
was a silence of about a minute, and Sir 
Richard sat up and said, vaguely, “ Thank 
God, it 's all over ! Take me away now ; 
I 'm ready to go." 

“ You shall go, time enough ; I have a 
word to say first,” said Longcluse, and he 
signed to the Jew to leave them. 

On being left to themselves, the first idea 
that struck Sir Richard was the wild one of 
escape. He glanced quickly at the window. 
It was barred with iihn. There were men 
in the next room — he could not tell how 
many ; and he was without arms. 

“ Clear your head," said Mr. Longcluse, 
seating himself before him, with the table 
between; “you must conceive a distinct 
idea of your situation, sir, and I shall then 
tell you something that remains. You have 
committed a forgery under aggravated cir- 
cumstances, for which I shall have you con- 
victed and sentenced to penal servitude at 
the next sessions. I have been a good friend 
to you on many occasions ; you have been a 
false one to me — who baser? and while I 
was anonymously helping you with large 
sums of money, you forged my name to a 
legal instrument for ten thousand pounds, to 
swindle your unknown benefactor, little sus- 
pecting who he was." 

Longcluse smiled. 

“ I have heard how you spoke of me. I 'm 
an adventurer, a leg, an assassin, a person 
whom you were compelled to drop; rather a 
low person, I fear, if a felon can't afford to 
sit beside me! You were always too fine a 
man for me. Your get-up was always pe- 
culiar; you were famous for that. It will 
soon be more singular still, when your hair 
and your clothes are cut after the fashion of 
the great world you are about to enter. 
How your friends will laugh ! " 

Sir Richard heard all with a helpless 
stare. 

“ I have only to stamp on the ground to 
call up the men who will accomplish your 
transformation. I can change your life, by 
a touch, into convict dress, diet, labor, lodg- 
ing, for the rest of your days. What plea 
have you to offer to my mercy ?" 

Sir Richard would have spoken, but his 
voice failed him. With a second eftbrt, how- 
ever, he said ; 


150 


CHECKMATE. 


“ It would be more manly if you let me 
meet my fate, without this/^ 

“ And you are such an admirable judge 
of what is manly or even gentlemanlike ! " 
said Longcluse. “Now mind, I shall arrest 
you in live minutes, for your three over-due 
bills. The men with the writ are in the 
next room. I sha’n’t iminediately arrest 
you for the forgery. That shall hang over 
you. I mean to make you, for a while, my 
instrument. Hear, and understand ; I mean 
to marry your sister. She don’t like me, 
but she suits me ; I have chosen her, and 
I ’ll not be baulked. When that is accom- 
lished, you are safe. No man likes to see 
is brother a spectacle of British justice, 
with cropped hair and a log to his foot. I 
may hate and despise you, as you deserve, 
but that would not do. Failing that, how- 
ever, you shall have justice, I promise you. 
The course I propose taking .is this : you 
shall be arrested here for debt. - You will 
be good enough to allow the people who take 
you to select your present place of confine- 
ment. It is arranged. I will then, by a 
note, appoint a place of meeting for this 
evening, where I can instruct you as to the 
particulars of the course of conduct I pre- 
scribe for you. If you mean to attempt an 
escape, you had better try it now; I will 
give you fourteen hours’ start, and un- 
dertake to catch and bring you back to Lon- 
don as a forger. If you make up your 
mind to submit to fate, and do precisely as 
you are ordered, you may emerge. But on 
the slightest evasion, prevarication, or de- 
fault, the blow descends. In the mean time 
we treat each other civilly before these peo- 
ple. Levi is in my hands, and you, I pre- 
sume, keep your own secret.” 

“That is all?” inquired Sir Richard. 

“ All for preseyit” was the reply ; “ you 
will see more clearly by-and-by that you are 
my property, and you will act accordingly.” 

, The two Jewish-looking gentlemen whom 
Richard had passed, in a conference in their 
carriage, which stood now at the steps of the 
house, were the sheriff’s officers destined to 
take charge of the fallen one, and convey 
him, by Levi’s direction, to a “ sponging- 
house,” which, I believe, belonged jointly to 
him and his partner, Mr. Goldshed. 

Mr. Longcluse left the baronet suddenly, 
and returned no more. 

Sir Richard’s role was cast. He was to 
figure, at least first, as a captive in the 
drama for which fate had selected him. He 
had no wish to retard the progress of the 
piece. Nothing more odious than his pres- 
ent situation was likely to come. 

“You have something to say to me?” 
said the baronet, making tender, as it were, 
of himself. The offer was, with much deli- 
cacy, accepted, and the sheriff, by his lieu- 
tenants, made prisoner of Sir Richard Ar- 
den, who strode down the stairs between 
them, and entered the seedy coach, and drove 
rapidly toward the city. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

NIGHT. 

At about eight o’clock that evening, a hur- 
ried note reached Alice Arden, at Mortlake. 
It was from her brother, and said : 

“ Mt Darling Alice : — I can’t get away from town to- 
night: I am overwhelmed witli business; but to-morrow, 
before dinner, I hope to see you, and stay at Mortlake 
till next morning. 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“Dic^.” 

The house was quiet earlier than it used to 
be in former times, w'hen Sir Reginald, of rak- 
ish memory, was never in his bed till past 
three o’clock in themorning. Mortlake was an 
early house now, and all quiet by a quarter 
past eleven. The last candle burning was 
in Mrs. Tansey’s room. She h^ not yet got 
to her bed, and was still in “ the house- 
keeper’s room,” when a tapping came .at 
the window. It reminded her of Mr. Long- 
cluse’s visit on the night of the funeral. 

She was now the only person up in the 
house, except Alice, now at the far side of 
the building, with her m.aid, who was in bed 
asleep. Alice, who sat at her dressing-hable, 
reading, with her long, rich hair dishevelled 
over her shoulders, was, of course, quite out 
of hearing. 

Martha went to the window with a little 
frown of uncertainty. Opening a bit of the 
shutter, she saw Sir Richard’s face close to 
her. 

Was everf)ld housekeeper so pestered by 
nightly tappings at her window-pane? 

“La! who’d a thought o’ seeing you, 
Master Richard ! why, you told Miss Alice 
you ’d not be here till to-morrow ! ” she said, 
pettishly, holding the candle high above her 
head. 

He made a sign of caution to her, and, 
placing his lips near the pane, said ; 

“ Open the window the least bit in life.” 

With a dark stare in his face, she obeyed. 
An odd approach, surely, for a master to 
make to his own house ! 

“ No one up in the house but you? ” he 
whispered, as soon as the window was open. 

“ Not one ! ” 

“ Don’t say a word, only listen : come 
softly round to the hall-door, and let me in ; 
.and light those candles there, and bring them 
with you to the hall. Don’t let a creature 
know I have been here, and make no noise, 
for your life ! ” 

The old woman nodded with the same 
little frown ; and he, pointing toward the 
hall-door, walked .away silently in that di- 
rection. 

“ What makes him look sa white and dow- 
ley? ” muttered the old woman, as she se- 
cured the window .and barred the shutters 
.again. 

“ Good creature! ” whispered Sir Richard, 
as he entered the hall, and placed his hand 
kindly on her shoulder, and with a very dark 


CHECKMATE. 


151 


look in her face ; “ yon liave always been 
true to me, Martha, and I depend on your 
good sense : not a word of my having been 
here, to any one — not to Miss Alice ! I have 
to search for papers. I shall be here but an 
hour or so. Don’t lock or bar the door, 
mind, and get to your bed ! Don’t come up 
this way again: good-night ! ” 

“ Won’t you have some supper?” 

“ No, thanks.” 

“ A glass of sherry and a bit o’ some- 
thing?” 

“ Ah»thing.” 

And he placed his hand on her shoulder 
gentl}', and looked toward the corridor that 
led to her room ; and then taking up one of 
the candles she had left alight on the table 
in the hall, he said : 

“ I’ll give you light;” and he repeated, 
with a wondrous heavy sigh, “ Good-night, 
dear old Martha.” 

“God bless ye, Master Dick. Ye must 
chirp up a bit, mind,” she said, very kindly, 
with an e.arnest look in his face. “I’m 
getting to rest — ye need n’t fear me walkin’ 
about to trouble ye. But ye must be careful 
to shut the hall-door close. I agree, as it is 
a thing to be done ; but ye must also knock 
at my bedroom window when j-e ’ve gane 
out, for I must get up and lock the door, 
and make a’ safe ; and don’t ye forget. Mas- 
ter Richard, what I tell ye.”. 

lie held the candle at the end of the cor- 
ridor, down which the wiry old woman went 
quickly ; and when he returned to the hall, 
and set the candle down again, he felt faint. 
In his ears were ever the terrible words: 
“ Mind, 1 take command of the house ; I dis- 
pose of and appoint the servants ; I don’t 
appear ; you do all ostensibly — but from 
garret to cellar, I ’m master. I ’ll look it over, 
and tell you what is to be done.” 

Sir Richard roused himself, and having 
listened at the staircase, he very softly 
opened the hall-door. The spire of the old 
church, under which Sir Reginald lies stark 
and lonely, showed hoar in the moonlight. 
At the left, from under a deep shadow of 
elms, comes silently a tall figure, and softly 
ascends the hall-door steps. The door is 
closed gently. 

Alice, sitting at her dressing-table, half 
an hour later, thought she heard steps — 
lowered her book, and listened. But no 
sound followed. 

Again the same light footfalls disturbed 
her, and again she was growing nervous. 
Once more she heard it, very stealthily, and 
now on the same floor on which her room 
was. 

She stands up, breathless. There is no 
noise now. 

She was thinking of waking her maid, 
but she remembered that she and Louisa 
Diaper had, in a like alarm, discovered old 
Martha, only two or three nights before, 
poking about the china-closet, dusting and 
counting, at one o’clock in the morning, and 


had then exacted a promise that she would 
visit that repository no more, except at sea- 
sonable hours. But old Martha was so pig- 
headed, and would take it for granted that 
she was fast asleep, and would rather fidget 
through the house and poke up everything 
at that hour than at any other. 

Quite persuaded of this, Alice took her 
candle, determined to blow up that trouble- 
some old thing, against whom she was fired 
with the irritation that attends on a cause- 
less fright. 

She walked along the gallery quickly, in 
slippers, flowing dressing-gown and hair, 
with her candle in her hand, to the head of 
the stairs, through the great window of 
which the moonlight streamed brightly. 

Through the keyhole of the door at the 
opposite side a ray of candle-light was visi- 
ble, and from this room opened the china- 
closet, which was, no doubt, the point of at- 
traction for the troublesome visitant. Hold- 
ing the candle high in her left hand, Alice 
opened the door. 

What she saw was this — a pair of can- 
dles burning on a small table, on which, 
with a pencil, Mr. Longcluse was drawing, 
it seemed, with care, a diagram ; at the 
same moment he raised his eyes, and Rich- 
ard Arden, who was standing with one hand 
placed on the table over which he was lean- 
ing a little, looked quickly at the same mo- 
ment round, and, rising, walked straight to • 
the door, interposing between her and Long- 
cluse. 

“ Oh, Alice ! you did n’t expect me. I ’m 
very busy, looking for — looking over pa- 
pery. Don’t mind.” 

He had placed his hands gently on her 
shoulders, and she receded as he advanced. 

“Oh! it don’t matter. I thought — I 
thought — I did not know.” 

She was smiling her best. She was hor- 
rified. He looked a ghost. 

Alice was gazing piteously in his face, and, 
withta little laugh, she began to cry con- 
vulsively. 

“ What is the matter with the little fool ? 
There, there — don’t, don’t — nonsense!” 

AVith an effort she recovered herself. 

“ Only a little startled, Dick. I did not 
think you were there: good-night.” 

And she' hastened back to her room and 
locked the door; and running into her 
maid’s room, sat down on the side of her 
bed and wept hysterically. To the implor- 
ing inquiries of her maid, she repeated only 
the words, “ I am frightened,” and left her 
in a startled perplexity. 

She knew that Longcluse saw her, and he, 
that she saw him. Their eyes had met. lie 
saw, with a bleak rage, the contracting look 
of horror, so nearly hatred, that she fixed 
on him for a breathless moment. There was 
a tremor of fury at his heart, as if it could 
have sprung at her, from his breast, and 
murdered her ; and — she looked so beauti- 
ful ! lie gazed with an idolatrous adinira- 


'152 


CHECKMATE. 


tion. Tears were welling to his eyes, and 
yet he would have laughed to see her wel- 
tering on the floor. A madman for some 
tremendous seconds ! 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

MEASURES. 

About twelve o’clock next day Richard 
Arden arrived at Mortlake. It was a beauti- 
ful autumnal day, and the mellow sun fell 
upon a foliage that was fading into russet 
and yellow. Alice was looking out from the 
open window, on the noble old timbers 
whose wide-spread boughs and thinning 
leaves caught the sunbeams pleasantly. She 
had heard her brother and his companion go 
down the stairs^ and saw them, from the 
window, walk quickly down the avenue, till 
the trees hid them from view. She thought 
that some of the servants were up, and that 
the door -was secured on their departure ; 
and the effect of the shock she had received 
gradually subsided, and she looked to her next 
interview with her brother for an explanation 
of the occurrence which had so startled her. 

That interview was approaching ; for as 
she looked from the window next morning, 
as I have described, a cab drove up to the 
steps, and her brother got out. Anxiously 
she looked, but no one followed him, and the 
driver shut the cab-door. 

Sir Richard kissed his hands to her, as 
she stood in the window. 

From the hall the house opens to the right 
and left, in two suites of rooms. The room 
in which Alice stood was called the sage- 
room, from its being hung in sage-green 
leather, stamped in gold. It is a small room, 
and would answer very prettily for a card- 
party or a tete-a-tUe. Alice had her work, her 
books, and her music there; she* liked it 
because the room was small and cheery. 
The door opened, and her brother caiiie in. 

“ Good Dick, to come so early ! welcome, 
darling,” she said, putting her arms about 
his neck, as he stooped and kissed her, 
smiling. 

He looked very ill, and his smile was painful. 

“ That was an odd little visit I paid last 
night,” said he, with a dark look fixed on 
her, inquiringly she thought ; “ very late 
— quite unexpected. You are quite well to- 
day ? you look flourishing.” 

“ I wish I could say as much for you, 
Dick ; I ’m afraid you are tiring yourself to 
death.” 

“ I had some one with me last night,” 
said Sir Richard, with his eye still upon 
her ; “I — I don’t know whether you per- 
ceived that.” 

Alice looked away, and then said care- 
lessly, but very gravely : 

“1 did — I saw Mr. Longcluse. I could 
not believe my eyes, Dick. You must pro- 
mise me one thing.” 


“ What is that ? ” 

“ That he sha’ n’t come into this house any 
more — while I am here, I mean.” 

“ That is easily promised,” said he. 

“ And what did he come about, Dick ? ” 

“Oh, he came — he came — I thought I 
told you ; he came about papers. I did not 
tell you ; but he has, after all, turned out 
very* friendly. He is going to do me a very 
important service.” 

She looked very much surprised. 

The young man looked through the win- 
dow, to which he walked ; he seemed em- 
barrassed ; and then turning to her, he said, 
peevishly : 

“ You seem to think, Alice, that one can 
never make a mistake, or change an 
opinion.” 

“ But I did not say so; only, Dick, I must 
allow that I have such a horror of that man 
— a terror of him — as nothing can ever get 
over.” 

“ I ’m to blame for that.” 

“No, I can’t say you are. I don’t mind 
stories so much as ” 

“Aswhatr?” 

“ As looks.” * 

“Looks! Why, you used to think him a 
gentlemanlike-looking fellow; and so he is.” 

“Looks and language,” said Alice. 

“ I thought he was a very civil fellow.” 

“ I sha’n’t dispute anything. I suppose 
you have found him a good friend, after all, 
as you say.” . 

“ As good a friend as most men,” said Sir 
Richard, growing pale; “they all act from 
interest: where interests are the same, men 
are friends. But he has saved me from a 
great deal, and he may do rhore ; and I be- 
lieve I was too hasty about those stories ; 
and I think you were right when you refused 
to believe them without proof.” 

“ I dare say — I don’t know — I believe 
my senses — and all I say is this, if Mr. 
Longcluse is to come here any more, I must 
go. He is no gentleman, I think — that is, 
I can’t describe how I dislike him — how I 
hate him 1 Dick, you look ill and unhappy : 
what ’s the matter? ” 

“I’m w.ell enough — I’m better; we 
shall be better — all better by-aifd-by. I 
wish the next five weeks were over! We 
must leave this; we must go to Arden Court; 
I will send some of the servants there first. 
I am going to tell them now they must get 
the house ready. You shall keep your maid 
here with you ; and when all is rea<ly in 
Yorkshire, we shall be off. Alice, Alice, 
don’t mind me — I ’m miserable — mad ! ” 
he said, and covered his face with his hands, 
and, for the first time for years, he sobbed. 

Alice was by his side, alarmed, curious, 
grieved ; and with all these emotions min- 
gling in her dark eyes and beautiful features, 
she drew his hand gently away, with a tor- 
rent of affectionate entreaties and inquiries. 

“ It is all very fine, Alice,” he exclaimed, 
with a sudden bitterness; “but I don’t be- 


CHECKMATE. 


153 


lieve, to save me from destruction, you would 
sacrifice one of your least caprices, or recon- 
cile one of your narrowest prejudices.’’ 

“ What can you mean, dear Richard ? only 
tell me how I can be of any use. You can’t 
mean, of course ” 

She stopped, with a startled look at him. 
“You know, dear Dick, that was always out 
of the question ; and surely you have heard 
that Lord Wynderbroke is to be married to 
Grace Maubray ? It is all settled.” 

Quite another thought had been in Rich- 
ard’s mind, but he was glad to accept Alice’s 
conjecture. 

“ Yes, so it is — so, at least, it is said to 
be ; but I am so worried and distracted, I 
half forget things. Girls are such jolly 
fools ; they throw good men away, and lose 
themselves. What is to become of you, 
Alice, if things go wrong with me ? I think 
the old times were best, when the old people 
settled who was to marry whom, and there 
was no disputing their decision, and mar- 
riages were just as happy, and courtships a 
great deal simpler ; and I am very sure 
there were fewer secret repinings, and broken 
hearts, and — threadbare old maids. Don’t 
you be a fool, Alice ; mind what I say.” 

He was leaving tjie room, but paused at 
the door, and returned and placed his hand 
on her arm, looking in her face, and said : 

“ Yes, mind what I say, for God’s sake, 
and we may all be a great deal happier.” 

He kissed her, and left the room. 

Her eyes followed him, as she thought, 
with a sigh : 

“How strange Dick is growing! I’m 
afraid he has been playing again, and losing. 
It must have been something very urgent 
that induced him to make it up again with 
that low, malignant man ; and this break- 
up, and journey to Arden Court! I think I 
should prefer being there. There is some- 
thing ominous about this place, picturesque 
as it is, and much as I like it. But the 
journey to Yorkshire is only another of the 
imaginary excursions Dick has been pro- 
posing every fortnight ; and next year, and 
the year after, will find us, I suppose, just 
where we are.” 

But this conjecture, for once, was mis- 
taken. It was this time a verftable break- 
up ; for notice of the intended migration 
had been given to the servants. Shortly 
afterward Martha Tansey entered with the 
importance of one who has a matter of 
moment to talk over. 

“ Here ’s something sudden. Miss Alice; 
I suppose you ’ve heard. Off to Arden 
Court in the mornin’. Crozier and me, and 
the footman discharged, and you to follow 
with Master Richard in a week.” 

“Oh, then, it is settled. Well, Martha, I 
am not sorry ; and I daresay you and Crozier 
won’t be sorry to see old Yorkshire faces 
again, and the Court, and the rookery, and 
the orchard.” 

“ I don’t mind ; glad enough to see a’ad 


faces, but I ’m a bit o’er a’ad myself for 
such sudden flittin’s, and Manx and Dar- 
went, and the rest, is to go by night-train 
to-morrow, and not a housemaid left in 
Mortlake. * But Master Richard says a’s 
provided, and ’twill be but a few days after a’s 
done ; and ye ’ll be down, then, at Arden by 
the middle o’ next week, and I ’m no sa sure 
the change mayn’t serve ye; and as your 
uncle. Master David, and Lad>’ May Penrose, 
and Miss Maubray — a strackle-brained lass 
she is, I doubt; and to think o’ that a’ad fule. 
Lord WynderlDroke, takin’ sich a young, 
bony hizzy to wife ! La bless ye ! she ’ll 
play the hangment wi’ that a’ad gowk of a 
lord, and all his goold guineas won’t do. Ilis 
kist o’ money won’t hod na time, I warrant 
ye, when once that lassie gets her pretty 
fingers under the lid. There ’ll be gaains 
on in that house, I warrant, and he ’ll find, 
too late — 

A fair Avife and a back door. 

Often makes a rich man poor ; 

not but he ’s a gude man, and a fine gentle- 
man as need be,” she added, remembering 
her own strenuous counsel in his favor, 
when he was supposed to be paying his 
court to Alice ; “ and if he was mated wi’ a 
gude lassie, wi gude blude in her veins, 
would doubtless keep as honorable a house, 
and hod his head as high, as any lord o’ them 
a’. But as I was saying. Miss Alice, now that 
Master David, and Lady May, and Miss 
Maubray is left Lunnon, there ’s no one 
here to pay ye a visit ; and ye ’ll be fairly 
buried alive here in Mortlake, and ye ’d be 
better, and sa will we a’, down at Arden, ‘ 
for a bit ; and there ’s gentle folk down 
there as gude as ever rode in Lunnon 
streets, mayhap, and better ; and mony a 
squire that ony leddy in the land might be 
proud to marry, and not one but would be 
glad to match wi’ an Arden.” ' 

“ That is a happy thought,” said Alice, 
laughing. 

“ And so it is, and no laughing matter,” 
said Martha, a little offended, as she stalked 
out of the room, and closed the door, grandly, 
after her. 

“ And God bless you, dear old Martha,” 
said the young lady, looking toward the 
door, through which she had just passed; 
“the truest and kindest soul on earth.” 

Sir Richard did not come back. She saw 
him no more that evening. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

AT( THE BAR OF THE GUY OF WARWICK. 

Next evening there came, not Richard, 
but a note, saying that he would see her the 
moment he could get away from town. As 
the old servant departed northward, her 
solitude for the first time began to grow irk- 


154 


CHECKMATE. 


some, and as the ni^ht approached, worse 
even than gloomy. Her extemporized house- 
hold made her laugh. It was not even a 
skeleton establishment. The kitchen de- 
partment had dwindled to a single person, 
who ordered her luncheon and dinner, only 
two or three plaU, daily, from the Guy of 
Warwick. The housemaid’s department was 
undertaken by a' single servant, a short, 
strong woman of some sixty years of age. 

This person puzzled Alice a good deal. 
She came to her, like the others, wdth a note 
IVoni her brother, stating her name, and that 
he liad engaged her for the few days they 
meant to remain roughing it at Mortlake, 
and that she had received a very good ac- 
count of her. 

This woman had not a bad countenance. 
There was, indeed, no tenderness in it ; but 
there was a sort of hard good-humor. There 
was cpiickness and resolution. She talked 
fluently of herself and her qualifications, and 
now and then made a short curtsey. But she 
took no notice of any one of Alice’s questions. 

A silence sometimes followed, during 
which Alice would repeat her interrogatory 
perhaps twice, with growing indignation ; 
and then the new comer Avould break into a 
totally independent talk, and leave the young 
lady wondering at her disciplined imperti- 
nence. ' It was not till her second visit that 
she enlightened her. 

“ I did not send for you. You can go ! ” 
said Alice. 

“ I don’t like a house that has children in 
it ; they gives a deal o’ trouble,” said the 
^ woman. 

“But I say you may go; you must go, 
please.” 

The woman looked round the room. 

“ When I was with Mrs. Montgomery, she 
had five, three girls and two boys; la! there 
never was five such ” 

“ Go, this moment, please; I insist on your 
going ; do you hear me, pray ? ” 

But so far from answering or obeying, 
this cool intruder continued her harangue 
before Miss Arden had got half-way to the 
end of her little speech. 

. “That woman was the greatest fool alive 
— nothing but spoiling and petting ; I could 
not stand it no longer ; so I took Master 
Tommy by the lug, and pulled him out of 
the kitchen, the limb! along the passage to 
the stairs, every inch, and I gave him a slap 
in the chops, the fat young rascal! you could 
hear all over the house! and didn’t he raise 
the roof? So missus and me we quarrelled 
upon it.” 

“If you don’t leave the room, 1 must; 
and I shall tell my brother. Sir Richard, 
how you have behaved yourself; and you 
may rely upon it ” 

But here again she was overpowered by 
the strong voice of her visitor. • 

■ “ It was in my next place, at Mr. Crump’s, 
I took cold in my head — very bad, miss, 
indeed — looking out of the window'^ to see two 


fellows fighting in a lane — in both ears — 
and so I lost my hearing, and I ’ve bin deaf 
as a post ever since ! ” 

Alice could not resist a laugh at her owm in- 
dignant eloquence quite throwm away ; and 
she hastily wrote wdth a pencil on a slip of 
paper ; 

“ Please don’t come to me except when I 
send for you.” 

“La! ma’am, I forgot!” exclaimed the 
woman, when she had examined it; “my 
orders was not to read any your writing.” 

“Not to read any of my writing!” said 
Alice, amazed ; “ then how' am I to tell 3n)u 
what I wdsh about anything? ” she inquired, 
for the moment forgetting that not one word 
of her question was heard. The woman, 
made a curtsey, and retired. 

“ What can Richard have meant by giving 
her such a direction ? I ’ll ask him when he 
comes.” 

It wnis likely enough that the woman had 
misunderstood him ; still, there was an un- 
comfortable uncertainty about it, and she 
began to wdsh that the little interval destined 
to be passed at Mortlake before her jourudy 
to Yorkshire w’as ended. 

She told her maid, Louisa Diaper, wdth a 
very pardonable curiosity, to go down to the 
kitchen and find out all she could as to wdiat 
people w'ere in the house, and what duties 
they had undertaken, and when her brother 
w\as likely to arrive. 

Louisa Diaper, slim, elegant, and demure, 
descended among these barbarous animals. 
She found in the kitchen, unexpectedly, a 
male stranger, a small, slight man, with 
great black eyes, a big sullen mouth, a 
sallow complexion, and a profusion of black 
ringlets. The deaf woman was conning 
over some Avriting of his on a torn-off blank 
leaf of a letter, and he was twiddling about 
the pencil, Avith which he had just traced it,’ 
in his fingers, and, in a singing drawl, hold- 
ing forth to the other woman who, with a 
long and high canvas-apron on, and the 
handle of an empty saucepan in her right 
hand, stood gaping at him with her arms 
hanging by her sides. 

On the appearance of Miss Diaper, Mr. 
Levi, for he it was, directed his solemn con- 
versation to that young lady. 

“I was just telling them about the rob- 
beries in the city and Wesht Ilend. La! 
there’s!) bin nothin’ like it for twenty year. 
They don’t tell them in the papersh, blesli ye ! 
The ’onie Shecretary takesh care o’ that ; 
they don’t want to frighten evei-y livin’ 
shoul out of London. But there ’ll be talk 
of it in Parliament, I promish you. I know 
three opposition membersh myshelf that will 
move the ’oushe upon it next session.” 

Mr. Levi wagged his head darkly as ho 
made this political revelation. 

“ Thish day twel’month the number o’ 
bui’glarish in London and the Wesht Ilend, 
including Ishlington, was no more than 
fifteen and a half a night ; and two rob- 


CHECKMATE. 


155 


berish attended with wiolensh. "Vyhat wazh 
it lasht night ? I have it in confidensh, from 
the polishe-offish thish morning.” 

lie pulled a pocket-book, rather greasy, 
from his breast, and from this depository, it 
is to be presumed, of statistical secrets, he 
read the following official memorandum : — 

“ Number of 'oushes burglarioushly hen- 
tered lasht night, including banksh, chari- 
table hinshtitutions, shops, lodging-’oushes, 
female hacademies, and private dwellings, 
and robbed with more or less wiolensh one 
thoushand shevert hundred and shixty- 
sheven. We regret to hadd,” he continued — 
the official return stealing, as it proceeded, 
gradually into the style of the “ Pictorial 
Calendar of British Crime,” a half-penny 
paper which he took in — “this hinunda- 
tion of crime seems flowing, or rayther 
rushing northward, and hazh already en- 
weloped Ishlington, where a bald-headed 
clock- and watch-maker, named Halexander 
Goggles, wazh murdered, together with his 
sheven shmall children, with unigshampled 
ba-arba-arity.” 

Mr. Levi eyed the woman horribly all 
round, as he ended the sentence, and he 
added : 

“ Ishlington’sh only down there. It 
ain’t five minutesh walk ; only a shtep \ 
jusht enough to give a fellow azh has polished 
ofi* a family there a happetite for another 
up here. Azh I ’ope to be shaved, I shleep 
every night’ with a pair of horshe-pistols, a 
bl underbush, and a shabre by my bed ; and 
Shir Richard wantsh every door in the 
’oushe fasht locked, and the keysh with him, 
before dark thish evening, except only such 
doors as you want open ; and he gave me a 
note to Miss Harden.” 

And he placed the note in Miss Diaper’s 
hand. 

“ lie wants the ’oushe a bit more she- 
cure,” he added, following her toward the 
hall ; “he wishes to make you and she quite 
shafe, and out of harm’s way, if anything 
should occur. It will be only a few days, 
you know, till you ’re both away.” 

The effect of this little alarm, accom- 
panied by Sir Richard’s note, was that Mr. 
Levi carried out a temporary arrangement, 
which assigned the suite of apartments in 
which Alice’s room was as those to which 
she would restrict herself during the few 
days she was to remain there, the rest of the 
house, except the kitchen and a servant’s 
room or two down-stairs, being locked up. 

By the time Mr. Levi had got the keys 
together, and all safe in Mortlake, the sun 
had set, and in the red twilight that fol- 
lowed he set off in his cab toward town. 

At the Guy of Warwick — from the bar 
of which already was flaring a good broad 
gas-light — he stopped, and got out. 

There was a full view of the bar from 
where he stood; and, pretending to rum- 
mage his pockets for something, he was look- 
ing in to see \^’iiether “the coast was clear.” 


“ She ’s just your sort — not too bad, and 
not too good — not too nashty, and not too 
nishe ; a good-humored lash, rough and 
ready, with aspishe o’ the devil, and knowsh 
a thing or two.” 

By this time he had pulled out a letter, 
which he did not in the least want to see, 
and having attentively read the address 
upon it, he returned it to his pocket, aiid 
stepped into the Gutlof Warwick. 

There was a lull in the business of that 
ancient hostelry just at that hour. 

“Ye’re there, are ye?” inquired Mr. 
Levi, playfully, as he crossed the door-stone, 
and placed his fists on the bar, grinning. 

“What will you take, sir, please?” in- 
quired the young woman, at one side of 
whom was the usual row of cocks and 
pump-handles, and all round shelves of 
bottles with scarlet, green, or golden labels, 
containing those elixirs that pleasantly 
sparkle, and warm far too many with a tiny 
ripple of hell-fire. 

The young woman did not look like a 
witch dispensing her philtres and infernal 
drops ; she was light-haired, blue-eyed, and 
looked like a lass who could “ chaff” with a 
customer, laugh pleasantly, fear no one, and 
take very good care of herself. 

“ Now, Miss Phebe, give me a brandy and 
shoda-water, pleashe. When I talked to you 
in thish ’ere place, ’t other night, you wished 
to engage for a lady’s maid. What would you 
shay to me, if I was to get you a firsht-clash 
tip-top pla-ashe of the kind? AVell, don’t 
you shay a word — that brandy ain’t fair 
measure — and I ’ll tell you. It ’sh a la-ady 
of ra-ank ! where wagesh ish no-o object ; and 
two years’ savings, and a good match with 
a well-to-do ’andsome young fellow, will set 
you hup in a better place than this ’ere.” 

“It comes very timely, sir, for I ’m to 
leave to-morrow; and I was thinking of 
going home to my uncle, in a day or tAvo, in 
Chester; but I’d rather do for myself in a 
service sich as that. Another brandy and 
water, please, sir ? ” 

“Well, it’s all settled,” said he, nod- 
ding; “and no,” he interposed, pulling 
his tumbler to his chest, “I ain’t punished 
this yet. Come you doAvn to my offishe, you 
know wherq it is, to-morrow at three, and 
I ’ll ’av all particklars for you, and a note to 
the lady from her brother, the baronet; and 
if you be a good girl, and do as you ’re bid, 
you’ll make a little fortune of it.” 

She curtsied, with her eyes very round, 
as he, with a wag of his head, drank down 
what remained of his “brandy and water,” 
and, wiping his mouth with his glove, ho 
said, “Three o’clock sha-arp, mind; good-by, 
Phebe, lass, and don’t you forget all I said.” 

He stood ungallantly with his back to- 
ward her on the threshold lighting a cigar, 
and so soon as he had it, in his OAvn phrase, 
“ working at full blast,” he got into his cab, 
and jingled tOAvard his office, with all his 
keys about him. 


156 


CHECKMATE. 


While Miss Arden remained all uncon- 
scious, and even a little amused, at the 
strange shifts to which her brief stay and 
extemporized household at Mordake exposed 
her, a wily and determined strategist was 
drawing his toils around her. 

The process of isolation was nearly com- 
pleted, without having once excited her sus- 
picions ; and, with the same perfidious skill, 
the house itself was virtually undergoing 
those modifications which best suited his 
des'gus. 

Sir Richard appeared at his club as usual. 
He was compelled to do so. The all-seeing 
eye of his pale tyrant pursued him every- 
where ; he lived under a spell of terror. 

There is a thought well elaborated by De 
Quincey, a thought which more or less dis- 
tinctly must have at one time or other struck 
most people. In almost every life there 
occurs at least one situation in which a man 
finds himself so placed that he must either 
be a hero or a villain. If he resists the tre- 
mendous pressure of temptation, and in 
such a case does right, he is sublime. If his 
resolution wavers, and he yields, he is a 
monster, at sight of whom humanity cries 
out, and covers its eyes. Sir Richard Arden 
was here between the heroic and the mon- 
strous. No neutral ground — he must be 
one or the other. Ilad he nerve to do so 
simple a duty at so stupendous a sacrifice? 
The gentle, suave Walter Longcluse, who 
so seldom unmasked, did not believe that any 
such prodigious ass walked about under a 
hat. Mr. Longcluse smiled his silent an- 
swer, as he thought how he held him in 
everlasting chains under darkness. But 
between the good and the evil in every man, 
so long as the good retains a spark of life, 
there is a warfare. A dreadful agony all 
this time convulsed Sir Richard Arden, 
within whose heart Longcluse suspected 
nothing but the serenity of death. 

“ What easier than to tell the story to the 

F olice. Meditated duress. Compulsion. 

nfernal villain. And then: what then? 
A pistol to his head, and — darkness ! ” 


CHAPTER LXXIH. 

A LETTER. 

Mr. Longcluse knocked at Sir Richard’s 
house in May Fair, and sent up-stairs for 
the baronet. It was about the same hour at 
which Mr. Levi was drinking his thirsty po- 
tation of brandy and water at the Guy of 
AVarwick. The streets were darker than 
that comparatively open place, and the 
street lamp threw its red outline of the win- 
dow upon the dark ceiling, as Mr, Longcluse 
stood in the drawing-room between the win- 
dows, in his great-coat, with his baton, look- 
ing in the dark like an image made of fog. 

Sir Richard Arden entered the room. 


“ You were not at Mortlake to-day,” said 
he. 

“ No.” 

“ There ’s a cab at the door that will take 
you there ; your absence for a whole day 
wmuld excite'surmise. Don’t stay more than 
five minutes, and don’t mention Louisa Dia- 
per’s name, and account for the locking up 
of all the house, but one suite of rooms, I 
directed, and come to my house in Bolton 
Street, direct from Mortlake. That’s all.” 

Without another word, Mr. Longcluse took 
his departure. 

In this cavalier way, and in a cold tone 
that conveyed all the menace and insult in- 
volved in his ruined position, had this con- 
ceited young man been ordered about by his 
betrayer, on his cruel behests, ever since he 
had come under his dreadful rod. 

The iron trap that held him fast, outraged 
pride, the terrors of suspense, the shame and 
remorse of his own enormous perlid}'^ against 
his only sister, locked him into a hell from 
which, except through the door of death, 
there seemed no escape. 

As he drove out to Mortlake, pale, frown- 
ing, with folded arms, his handsome face 
thinned and drawn in the cords of pain, he 
made up his mind. 

* He knocked furiously at Mortlake Hall 
door. The woman in the canvas apron let 
him in. The strange face startled liim ; he 
had been thinking so intently of one thing. 
Going up through the darkened house, wdth 
but one candle, and tapping at the door, on 
the floor above the drawing-room, within 
which she was sitting, with Louisa Diaper 
for company, and looking at her unsuspicious 
smile, he felt what *(, heinous conspirator he 
was. 

He made an excuse for sending the maid 
to the next room after they had spoken a few 
words, and he said ; 

“ Suppose, Alice, we were to change our 
plan ; would you like to come abroad? Out 
of this you must come immediately.” He 
was speaking low. “ I am in great danger ; 
I must go abroad. For your life, don’t seem 
,to suspect anything. Do exactly as I tell 
you, or else I am utterly ruined, and you, 
Alice, on your own account, very miserable. 
Don’t ask a question, or look a look that may 
make Louisa Diaper suspect that you have 
any doubt as to your going to Arden, or any 
suspicion of any danger. She is quite true, 
but not wise, I dare say, and your left hand 
must not know what your right hand is do- 
ing. We are beset and watched ; don’t be 
frightened, only be steady and calm. Get 
together any jewels and money you have, 
and as little else as yoii can possibly manage 
with. Do this yourself ; Louisa Diaper must 
know nothing about it. I will mature our 
plans, and to-morrow or next day I shall see 
you again ; I can stay but a moment now, 
and have but time to bid you good-night.” 

And he kissed her. 

How horribly agitated he dooked ! How 


C H E C K M A^T E. 


157 


cold was the hand with which he pressed 
hers ! 

“ Hush ! he whispered, and his dark 
eyes were fixed on the door through which 
he expected the return of the maid. And as 
he heard her step, “ Not a word, remem- 
ber ! ’’ he said ; then bidding her good-night 
aloud, he quitted the room almost as sud- 
denly as he had appeared, leaving her full 
of the most portentous misgivings, and, for 
the first time, in the horrors of a growing 
panic. 

Sir Richard leaned back in the cab as he 
drove into town, lie had as yet no plan 
formed. It was a more complicated exploit 
than he was at the moment equal to. In 
Mortlake were two fellows, by way of pro- 
tectors, placed there for security of the house 
and people. 

These men held possession of the keys of 
the house, and sat and regaled themselves 
with their punch, or cold brandy and water, 
and pipes ; always one awake, and with ears 
erect, kept watch and ward in the room to 
the right of the hall door, in which Sir Rich- 
ard and uncle David had conversed with the 
sad Mr. Plumes, on the evening after the old 
baronet’s death. To elFect Alice’s escape, 
and reserve for himself a chance of accom- 
plishing his own, was a problem whose solu- 
tion needed skill, cunning, and audacity. 

While he revolved these things in dire 
confusion, an alarm had been sounded in 
another quarter, which unexpectedly opened 
a chance of extrication, sudden and start- 
ling. 

Mr. Longcluse was destined to a surprise 
to-night. 

Overlooked in his usually accurate though 
rapid selection, a particularly shabby and 
vulgar-looking letter had been thrown aside 
among circulars, pamphlets, and begging- 
letters, to await his leisure. It was a letter 
from Paris, and vulgar and unbusiness-like 
as it looked, there was yet, in its peculiar 
scrivenery that which, a little more atten- 
tively scanned, thrilled him with a sudden 
misgiving. The post-mark showed it had 
been delivered four days before. 

Mr. Longcluse, at his own house, was 
awaiting the return of Sir Richard. 

He was so much moved when he saw from 
whom it came, and had gathered something 
of its meaning from a few phrases, that his 
dark eyes gleamed and his face grew stern, 
and more than he often showed of his per- 
turbation expressed itself in his face. Was 
this wretch’s hoof to strike to pieces the plans 
he had so nearly matured? The letter was 
expressed as follows : 

« Sib; — Mr. Longcluse, I hare been unfortunate With 
your money which you have Gave me to remove from 
England, and Keep me in New York. My Boxes and 
other things, and Ballens of the money, in Gold, except 
about a Hundred pounds, which has kep me from Want 
ever sense, went Down in the Mary Jane, of London, and 
my cusin went down in Her also, which I miht as well av 
Went down myself in her, only for me Stopping in Paris, 
where I made a triffle of Money, intending to go Out in 
August. Now, sir, don’t you Seppose I am not in as good 


Possitiou as I was when I Harranged with sum difculty 
With you. The boot with The blood Mark on the Soul is 
not Lost nor DLstroyed, but it is Safe in my Custody ; so 
as Likewise in safe Keeping is The traising, in paper, of 
the foot Mark in blood on the Floar of the Smoaking 
Room in question, with the signatures of the witnesses 
attached ; and. Moreover, my Staitment made in the Form 
of a Information, at the Time, and signed In witness of My 
signature by two Unekseptinible witnesses. And all Is 
ready to Prodnise whenever his worshop shall Apoynt. i 
have wrote To mister davit Arden on this Supget. i wrote 
to him just a week ago, he seaming To take a Intrast in 
this Heer case ; and, moreover. The two ieyes that sawd a 
certain Person about The said Smoaking Room, and In the 
saime, is Boath wide open at This presen Time, mister 
Longcluse i do not Want to have your Life, but gustice 
must Taike its coarse unles it Is settled of hand Slik. i 
will harrange the Same as last time. And i must have two 
hundred And fifty pounds More on this Setlement then i 
Had last time, for Dellay and loss of Time in this town. 

I will sign any law paper In reason you may ask of me. 
My hadress is under cover to Monseer Letexier, air-dress- 
er, and incloses his card, which you Will please send an 
A user by return Of post, or else i Must sepose you chose 
The afare shall taike Its coarse; and i am as ever, 

“ Your obeediant servent to comand, 

“Paul Davies.” 

Never did paper look so dazzlingly white, 
or letters so intensely black, before Mr. 
Longcluse’s eyes, as those of this blackguard 
letter. 

He crumpled it up and thrust it in his 
trousers’ pocket, and gave to the position a 
few seconds of intense thought. 

His first thought was, what a fool he was 
for not having driven Davies to the wall, 
and settled the matter with the high hand 
of the law, at once. His next, what could 
bring him to Paris? He was there for some- 
thing. To see, possibly, the family of Le- 
bas, and collect and dovetail pieces of evi- 
dence, after his detective practice, a process 
which would be sure to conduct him on to 
the Baron Vanboeren! Was his trouble to 
be never-ending? If this accursed ferret 
were once to get into his warren, what pow- 
er could unearth him, till the mischief was 
done? 

His eye caught again the wordsfon which, 
in the expressive phrase which Mr. Davies 
would have used, his “ sight spred ” as he 
held the letter before his eyes — “Mister 
Longcluse, i do not Want to have your Life.” 

He ground his teeth, shook his fist in the 
air, and stamped on the floor with fury, at 
the thought that a brutal detective, not able 
to spell two words consecutively, and trained 
for such game as London thieves and burg- 
lars, should dare to hold such language to 
a man of thought and exquisite skill, alto- 
gether so masterly as he! That he should 
be outwitted by that clumsy scoundrel ! 

Well, it was now to begin all over again. 
It should all go right this time. 

He thought again for a moment, and then 
sat down and wrote, commencing with the 
date and address : 

“ Paul Davies : — I have just received your note, which 
states that you have succeeded in obtaining some addi- 
tional information, which you think may lead to the con- 
viction of the murderer of M. Lebas, in the Salobn Tavern. 
I shall be most happy to pay handsomely any expense of 
any kind you may be put to in that matter. It is, indeed, 
no more than I had already undertaken. I am glad to 
learn that you have also written on the subject to Mr. 
David Arden, who feels entirely with me. I shall take 
an early opportunity of seeing him. Persist in your laud- 


158 


CHECKMATE. 


able exertions, and I shall not shrink from defraying the 
entire expense. — Yours, 

“ Walter Longcluse.” 

He addressed the letter carefully, and went 
himself and put it in the post-office. 

By this time Sir Richard Arden was await- 
ing him at home, in his drawing-room ; and 
as he walked homeward, under the lamps, 
in inward pain, one might have moralized 
with Peter Pindar — 

“These fleas have other fleas to bite ’em, 

And so on ad infinitum.” 

The secret tyrant had in his turn found a 
secret tyrant, not less cruel, perhaps, but 
more ignoble. The devils, in their moments 
of jocularity, no doubt, enjoy such specta- 
' cles. 

“ You made your visit ? ” asked Mr. Long- 
cluse. 

“ Yes.’’ 

“ Anything to report ? ” 

“Absolutely nothing.” 

A silence followed. 

“ Where is Mr. Arden, your uncle? ” 

“ In Scotland.” 

. “ How soon does he return ? ” 

“ He will not be in town till spring, I be- 
lieve ; he is going abroad, but he passes 
through Southampton, on his way to the Con- 
tinent, on Friday next.” 

“ And makes some little stay there? ” 

“ I think he stays one night.” 

“ Then I’ll go down and see him, and you 
shall come with me.” 

Sir Richard stared. 

“ Yes, and you had better not put your 
foot in it ; and clear your head of all notion 
of running away,” he said, fixing his fiery 
eyes on Sir Richard, with a sudden ferocity 
that made him fancy that his secret thoughts 
had revealed themselves under his piercing 
gaze. “ It is not easy to levant now-a-days, 
unless one has swifter wings than the wires 
can carry news with ; and if you are false, 
what more do I need than to blast you ? and 
with your name in the hue-and-cry, and a 
thousand pounds reward for the apprehen- 
sion of Sir Richard Arden, baronet, for for- 
gery, I don’t see much more that infamy 
can do for you.” 

A dark flush crossed Arden’s face, as he 
rose. 

“ Not a word, now,” cried Longcluse, 
harshly, extending his hand quickly toward 
him ; “ I may do that which cannot be un- 
done.” 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

BLIGHT AND CHANGE. 

Danger to herself, Alice suspected none. 
But she was full of dreadful conjectures 
about her brother. There was, she was per- 
suaded, no good any longer in remonstrance 


or entreaty. She could not upbraid him; 
but she was persuaded that in the terrible 
fascination of the gaming-table the sudden 
ruin he vaguely confessed had originated. 

“Oh,” she often repeated, “that uncle 
David were in town, or that I knew where 
to find him !” 

“ But no doubt,” she thought, “ Richard 
will hide nothing from him, and, perhaps, 
my hinting his disclosures even to him would 
aggravate poor Richard’s difficulties and 
misery.” 

It was not until the next evening that, 
about the same hour, she again saw her 
brother. His good resolutions in the interval 
had waxed faint. They were not reversed, 
but only, in the spirit of indecision, and 
something of the apathy of despair, post- 
poned to a more convenient season. 

To her he seemed more tranquil. He said 
vaguely that the reasons for flight were less 
urgent, and that she had better continue her 
preparations, as before, for her journey to 
Yorkshire. 

Even under these circumstances, the jour- 
ney to Yorkshire was pleasant. There was 
comfort in the certainty that he would there 
be beyond the reach of that fatal tempta- 
tion which had too plainly all but ruined 
him. From the harassing distractions, also, 
which in London had of late beset him, 
almost without intermission, he might find 
in the seclusion of Arden a temporary calm. 
There, wdth uncle David’s help, there would 
be time, at least, to ascei'tain the extent of 
the ruin which had come, and what the old 
family of Arden might still count upon as 
their own, and a plan of life might be 
arran<ied for the future. 

Full of these more cheery thoughts, Alice 
took leave of her brother. 

“ I. am going,” he said, looking at his 
watch, “direct to Brighton; I have just 
time to get to the station nicely : business, 
of course — a meeting to-night with Bexley, 
who is staying there, and in the morning a 
long and, I fear, angry discussion with 
Charrington, who is also at Brighton.” 

He kissed his sister, sighed deeply, and 
looking in her eyes for a little, fixedly, ho 
said : 

“ Alice, darling, you must try to think 
what sacrifice you can make to save your 
wretched brother.” * ♦ 

Their eyes met as she looked -up, her 
hands about his neck, his fondly on her 
shoulders ; he drew his sister to him quickly, 
and, with another kiss, turned, ran down- 
stairs, and got into his cab, and drove down 
the avenue. 

She stood looking after him with a heavy 
heart. How happy they two might have 
been, if it had not been for the one incorri- 
gible insanity ! 

About an hour later, as the sun was near 
its setting, she put on her hat and short 
gray cloak, and stepped out into its level 
beams, and looked round smiling. The 


CHECKMATE. 159 


golden glow and transparent shadows made 
that dimpling smile and beautiful face look 
more than ever lovely. All around the air 
was ringing with the farewell songs of the 
small birds, and, with a heart almost re- 
joicing in sympathy with that beautiful 
hour, she walked lightly to the old garden, 
which, in that luminous air, looked, she 
thought, so sad and pretty. 

The well-worn aphorism of the French- 
man, “ History repeats itself,’^ was about to 
assert itself. Sometimes it comes in literal 
sobriety, sometimes in derisive travesti, 
sometimes in tragic aggravation. 

She was in the garden now. The associa- 
tions of place recalled her strange interview 
with Mr. Longcluse but a few months before. 
Since then a blight had fallen on the scenery, 
and what a change upon the persons ! 

The fruit-leaves wer'e yellow now, and 
drifts of them lay upon the walks. Mant- 
ling ivy canopied the door, interlaced witji 
climbing roses which had long shed their 
honors. This thick mass of dark green 
foliage and thorny tendrils formed a deep 
arched porch, in the shadows of which, sud- 
denly, as on her return she reached it, she 
saw Mr. Longcluse standing within a step or 
two of her. 

He raised his hand ; it might be in en- 
treaty, it might be in menace ; she could not, 
in the few alarmed moments in which she 
gazed at his dark eyes and pale equivocal 
face, determine anything but that some in- 
tense emotion excited him. 

‘‘ Miss Arden, you may hate me ; you 
can’t despise me. You must hear me, be- 
cause you are in my power. I relent, beauti- 
ful creature, thus far, that I give you one 
chance more of reconciliation ; don’t, for 
God’s sake, throw it from you ! ” (he was 
extending his open hand to*receive hers). 
“ Why should you prefer an unequal war 
with me? I tell you frankly you are in my 
power — don’t misunderstand me — in my 
poicer to this degree, that you shall volun- 
tarily, as the more tolerable of two alter- 
natives, submit with abject acquiescence to 
every one of my conditions. Here is my 
hand ; think of the degradation I submit to 
in asking you to take it. You gave me no 
chance when I asked forgiveness. I tender 
you a full forgiveness : here is my hand ; be- 
ware hoAv you despise it.” 

Fearful as he appeared in her sight, her 
fear gave way before her kindling spirit. She 
had stood before him pale as death — anger 
now fired her eye and cheek. 

“ How dare you, sir, hold such language 
to me? Do you suppose, if I had told my 
brother of 5mur cowardice and insolence as I 
left the Abbey the other day, you would 
have diired to speak to him, much less to 
me? Let me pass, and never while you live 
presume to address me more.” 

Mr. Longcluse, with a slow recoil, smiling 
fixedly, and bowing, drew back, and opened 
the door for her to pass. He did not any 


longer look like a villain whose heart had 
failed him. 

Her heart fluttered violently with fear, as 
she saw that he stepped out after her and 
walked by her side toward the house; 

She quickened her pace in great alarm. 

“ If you had liked me ever so little,” said 
he, in that faint and horrible tone she re- 
membered, “ one, the smallest particle of 
disinterested liking — the grain of mustard- 
seed — I would have had you fast, and made 
you happy, made you adore me ; such adora- 
tion that you could have heard from my own 
lips the confession of my crimes and loved 
me still — loved me more desperately. Now 
that you hate me, and I hate you, and have 
you in my power, and while I hate, still ad- 
mire you — still choose you for my wife — 
you shall hear the same story, and think me 
all the more dreadful. You sought to de- 
grade me, and I ’ll humble you in the dust. 
Suppose I tell you I’m a criminal — the 
kind of man you have read of in trials, and 
can’t understand, and can scarcely even be- 
lieve in — the kind of man that seems to you 
as unaccountable and monstrous as a ghost 
— your terrors and horror will make my 
triumph exquisite with an immense delight. 
I don’t want to smooth the way for you ; you 
do nothing for me. I disdain hypocrisy. 
Terror drives you on ; fate coerces you ; you 
can’t help yourself, and my delight is to 
make the plunge terrible. I reveal myself 
that you may know the sort of person you 
are yoked to. Your sacrifice shall be the 
agony of agonies, the death of deaths ; and 
yet you ’ll find yourself unable to resist. I ’ll 
make you submissive as ever patient was to 
a mad doctor. If it took years to do it, you 
shall never stir out of this house till it is 
done. Every spark of insolence in your na- 
ture shall be trampled out; I’ll break you 
thoroughly. The sound of my stop shall 
make your heart jump; a sight of me shall 
silence you for an hour. You shall not be 
able to take your eyes off* me while I’m in 
sight, or to forget me for a moment when I 
am gone. The smallest thing you do, the 
least word you speak, the very thoughts of 
your heart, shall all be shaped under one 
necessity and one fear, and to one purpose.” 
(She had reached the hall-door.) “Up the 
steps ! Yes ; jmu wish to enter ? Cer- 
tainly.” 

With flashing eyes and head erect this 
beautiful girl stepped into the hall, without 
looking to the right or to the left, or utter- 
ing one word, and walked quickly to the 
foot of the great stair. 

If she thought that Mr. Longcluse would 
respect the barrier of the threshold, she was 
mistaken. He entered but one step behind 
her, shut the heavy hall-door with a crash, 
dropped the key into his coat-pocket, and 
signing with his finger to the man in the 
room to the right, that person stood up brisk- 
ly, and prepared for action. He closed the 
I door again, saying simply, “ I ’ll call.” 


160 


CHECKMATE. 


The young lady, hearing his step, turned 
round and stood on the stair, confronting 
him fiercely. 

“ You must leave this house this moment,” 
she cried, -with a stamp, with gleaming eyes 
and very pale. 

“ By-and-by,” ho replied, standing before 
her. 

Could this be the safe old house in which 
childish days had passed, in which all 
around were always friendly and familiar 
faces? The window stood reflected upon the 
wall beside her in the dim sunset splendor, 
and the shadows of the flowers sharp and 
still th|Lt stood there. 

“ I have friends here who will turn you 
out ! ” 

“ You have no friends here,” he replied, 
with the same fixed smile. 

Slie hesitated; she stepped down, but 
stopped in the hall. She remembered in- 
stantly tlmt, as she turned, she liad seen him 
take the key from the hall- door, and se- 
cure it. 

“ My brother will protect me.” 

“ Is he here? ” 

“lie’ll call you to account to-morrow, 
when he comes.” 

“ Will he say so ? ” 

“ Always — brave, true Richard ! ” she 
sobbed, with a strange cry in her words. 

“ lie ’ll do as I bid him : he ’s a forger, in 
my power.” 

To her wild stare he replied with a low, 
faint laugh. 

She clasped her fingers over her temples. 

“ Oh ! no, no, no, no, no, no ! ” she screamed, 
and suddenly she rushed into the great room 
at her right. Her brother — was it a phan- 
tom ? — stood before her. With one long, 
shrill scream, she threw herself into his 
arms and cried: “ It’s a lie, darling; it’s a 
He ! ” and she had fainted. 

He laid her in the great chair by the fire- 
place. AVith white lips, and with one fist 
shaking wildly in the air, he said, with a 
dreadful shiver in his voice : 

“ You villain ! you villain ! you d d 

villain ! ” 

“ Don’t you be a fool ! ” said Longcluse. 
“ Ring for the maid. There must have'‘been 
a crisis some time. I’m giving you a fair 
chance — trying to save you ; they all faint 
— it’s a trick with women.” 

Longcluse looked into her lifeless face, 
with something dark of pity and horror 
mingling in the villany of his countenance. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

PHEBE CniFFINCH. 

Mr. Longcluse passed into the inner room, 
as he heard a step approaching from the 
hall. It was Louisa Diaper, in whose care, 
with the simple remedy of cold water, the 


young lady recovered. She was conveyed to 
her room, and Richard Arden followed, at 
Longcluse’s command, to “ keep things 
quiet.” 

In an agony of remorse, he remained with 
his sister’s hand in his, sitting by the bed 
on which she lay. Longcluse had spoken 
with the resolution that a few sharp and 
short words should accomplish the crisis, 
and show her plainly that her brother was, 
in the most literal and terrible sense, in his 
power, and thus, indirectly, she also. Per- 
haps, if she must know the fact, it was as 
well she should know it now. 

Longcluse, I suppose, had reckoned upon 
his throwing himself upon his sister’s mercy. 
He thought he had done so before, and moved 
her as he would have wished. Longcluse, 
no doubt, had .spoken to her, expecting to 
find her in a dififerent mood. Had she 
yielded, what sort of husband would he 
have made her? Not cruel, I dare say. 
Proud of her, he would have been. She 
should have had the best diamonds in Eng- 
land. Jealous, violent when crossed, but 
with all his malice and severity, easily by 
Alice to have been won, had she cared to 
win him, to tenderness. 

Was Sir Richard now seconding his 
scheme? 

Sir Richard had no plan — none for escape, 
none for a catastrophe, none for acting upon 
Alice’s feelings. 

“ I am so agitated — in such despair — so 
stunned! If I had but one clear hour! 
Oh, God ! if I had but one clear hour to 
think in ! ” 

He was now trying to persuade Alice that 
Longcluse had, in his rage, used exagger- 
ated language — that it was true he was in 
his power, but it was for a large sum of 
money, for wljich he was his debtor. 

“Yes, darling,” he whispered, “only be 
firm. I shall get away, and take you with 
me — only be secret, and don’t mind one 
word he saj’s when he is angry — he is liter- 
ally a madman ; there is no limit to the vio- 
lence and alusurdity of what he says.” 

“ Is he still in the house? ” she whispered. 

“ Not he.” 

“ Are you certain ? ” 

“Perfectly; with all his rant, he dares 
not stay : it would be a police-office affair. 
He’s gone long ago.” 

“ Thank God! ” she said, with a shudder. 

Their agitated talk continued for some 
time longer. 

At last, darkly and suddenly, as usual, he, 
took his leave. 

AVhen her brother had gone, she touched 
the bell for Louisa Diaper. A stranger ap- 
peared. 

“Who are you?” said Alice, sitting up. 
“ I rang for my maid, Louisa Diaper.” 

“ Please, my lady, she went into town to 
fetch some things here from Sir Richard’s 
house.” 

“ How long ago ? ” 




. CHECKMATE. 


161 


“ J list when you was getting better, please, 
my lady.” 

“When she returns, send her to me. 
What is your name?” 

“ Phebe Chiffinch, please ^m.” 

“ And you are here ” 

“In her place, please, my lady.” 

“Well, when she comes back, you can as- 
sist. We have a great deal to do; and I 
Aike your face, Phebe, and Pm so lonely, I 
think I ’ll get you to sit here in the window 
near me.” 

And on a sudden the young lady burst 
into tears, and sobbed and wept bitterly. 

The new maid was at her side, pouring all 
sorts of consolation into her ear, with odd 
phrases — quite intelligible, I dare say, over 
the bar of the Guy of Warwick — dropping 
h’s in all directions, and bowling down 
grammatic rules like nine-pins. 

She was wonderfully taken by the kind 
looks and tones of the pretty lady whom she 
saw in this distress, and with the silk cur- 
tains drawn back in the fading flush of even- 
ing. 

Hard work, hard fare, and harder words 
were her portion from her orphaned child- 
hood upward, at the old Guy of Warwick, 
with its dubious customers, failing business, 
and bitter and grumbling old hostess. 
Shrewd, hard, and not over-nice had Miss 
Phebe grown up in that godless school. 

But she had taken a fancy, as the phrase 
is, to the looks of the young lady, and still 
more to her sweet voice and words, that in 
her ears sounded so new and strange. There 
was a not unpleasant sense, too, of the supe- 
riority of rank and refinement which inspire 
an admiring awe in her kind ; and so, in a 
'voice that was rather sweet and very cheery, 
she ofrered, when the young lady was better, 
to sit by the bed and tell her a story, or sing 
her a song. 

Every one knows how his view of his own 
case may va^y within an hour. Alice was, 
now of opinion that there was no reason to 
reject her brother’s version of the terrifying 
situation. A man who could act like Mr. 
Longcluse, could, of course, say anything. 
She had begun to grow more cheerful, and 
in a little while she accepted the offer of her 
companion, and heard, first a story, and 
then a song; and, after that, she talked 
with her for some time. 

“ Tell me, now, what servants there are in^ 
the house,” asked Alice. 

“Only two women and myself,please,miss.^' 

“ Is there any one else in the house be- 
sides ourselves ? ” 

The girl looked down, and up again, in 
Alice’s eyesf and then away to the floor at 
the other end of the room. 

“ I was told, ma’am, not to talk of noth- 
ing here, miss, except my own business, 
please, my lady.” 

“ My God ! This girl may n’t speak truth 
to me,” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands 
aghast. 

11 


The girl looked uneasily. 

“ 1 should be sent aM^ay, ma’am, if I do.” 

“Look — listen; in this strait you must 
be for me or againstme ; you can’tbe divided. 
For God’s sake be a friend to me now. I 
may ^yet be the best friend you ever had. 
Come, Phebe, trust me, and I ’ll never be- 
tray you.” 

She took the girl’s hand. Phebe did not 
speak. She looked in her face earnestly for 
some moments, and then down and up again. 

“I don’t mind. I’ll do as you say, 
ma’am ; I ’ll tell you everything. But if 
you tell them, ma’am, it will be awful bad 
for me, my lady.” 

She looked again, very much frightened, 
in her face, and was silent. 

“ No one shall ever know but me. Trust 
me entirely, and I ’ll never forget it to you.” 

“ Well, ma’am, there is two men.” 

“ Who are they ? ” 

“Two men, please ’m. I knows one on 
’em — he was keeper on the Guy o’ War- 
wick, please, my lady, when there was a 
hexecution in the ’ouse. They ’re both 
sheriff’s men.” 

“ And what are they doing here? ” 

“A hexecution, my lady.” 

“ 'fhat is, ain’t it, to sell the furniture and 
everything for a debt, isn’t that it?” in- 
quired the lady, bewildered. 

“Well, that was it below at the Guy o’ 
WarAvick, miss; but Mr. Vargers, he was 
courting me down there at the Guy o’ War- 
wick, and offered marriage if I would ’av 
’ad him, and he tells me heverything, and 
he says that it is a paper to take you, please, 
ray lady.” 

“ Take me f ” 

“Yes, my lady; he read it to me in the 
room by the hall-door. Halice Harden, spin- 
ster, and something about the old guv’nor's 
will, please ; and his borders is to take 
you, please, miss, jf you should offer to go 
out of the door ; and there ’s two on ’em, and 
they watches turn about, ^o you can’t leave 
the ’ouse, please, my lady ; and if you try, 
they ’ll only lock you up, a prisoner, in one 
room a-top o’ the ’ouse ; and, for your life, 
my lady, don’t tell no one I said a word.” 

“Oh, Phebe! What can they mean? 
What’s to become of me? SomehoAV or 
other you must get me out of this house. 
Help me, for God’s sake! I’ll throw my- 
self from the window — I’ll kill myself — 
rather than remain in their power.” 

“ Hush 1 My lady, please, there ’s a friend 
of mine, a blacksmith, in the village down 
there. I know what I’ll do. You must 
have patience. They won’t be so sharp in a 
day or tAvo. I don’t know which way the 
right is, but I ’ll get you out if I can ; and, 
if 1 can’t, then God’s will be done. And 
I’ll make out all from Mr. Vargers; and 
donUyou let no one think you likes me, and 
I ’ll he sly enough ; you may count on me, 
my lady.”' 

Trembling all over, Alice kissed her. 


162 


CHECKMATE. 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

MR. LONGCLUSE AND UNCLE DAVID. 

Louisa Diaper did not appear that night, 
nor next morning. She had been spirited 
away like the rest. Sir ’Richard had told 
her that his sister desired that she should go 
into town, and stay till next day, under the 
care of the housekeeper in town, and that he 
( would bring her a list of commissions which 
she was to do for her mistress preparatory to 
starting for Yorkshire. It was not till the 
night after that #he started for the North. 

Sir Richard Arden was not the cold villain 
you may suppose. lie was resolved to make 
an effort of some kind for the extrication of 
his sister. He could not bear to open his 
dreadful situation to his uncle David, nor to 
kill himself, nor to defy the vengeance of 
Longcluse. He would effect her escape and 
his own simultaneously. In the mean time 
he must acquiesce, ostensibly at least, in 
ever3'- step determined b}^ Longcluse. 

It was a bright autumnal day as Sir Rich- 
ard and Mr. Longcluse took the rail to South- 
ampton. Longcluse had his reasons for 
taking the young baronet with him. 

It was near the hour, by the time they 
got there, when David Arden would arrive 
from his northern point of departure. 

Longcluse looked animated, smiling; but 
a stupendous load lay on his heart. A sin- 
gle clumsy phrase in the letter of that de- 
tective scoundrel might be enough to direct 
the formidable suspicions of that energetic 
old gentleman upon him. The next hour 
might throw him altogether upon the defen- 
sive, and paralyze his schemes. 

Alice Arden, you little dream of the man 
and the route by which, possibly, deliverance 
is speeding to jmu. 

Near the steps of the large hotel that 
looked seaward, Longclu§e and Sir Richard 
lounged, expecting the arrival of David Ar- 
den almost momentarily. 

Up drives a fly, piled with portmanteaus, 
hatcase, dressing-case, and all the other 
travelling appurtenances of a comfortable 
wayfarer. Beside the driver sits a servant. 
It draws up at the door near them. 

Mr. Longcluse’s seasoned heart throbs 
once or twice oddly. 

Out gets uncle David, looking browned 
and healthy after his northern excursion.* 
On reaching the top of the steps, he halts, 
and turns round to look about him. Again 
Mr. Longcluse feels the same odd sensation 
at his heart. 

Uncle David recognizes Sir Richard, and, 
smiling, greets him. He runs down the 
steps to meet him. After they have shaken 
hands, and a little more coldly, he and Mr. 
Longcluse, he says: 

“ You are not looking yourself, Dickj you 
ought to have run down to the Moor^ and 
got up an appetite. How is Alice ? 

“ Alice ? Oh ! Alice is very well, thanks.’^ 


“ I should like to run up to Mortlake to 
see her. She has been complaining, eh?^^ 

“No, no — better,'’ said Sir Richard. 

“ And you forget to trll your uncle what 
you told me,” interposed Mr. Longcluse, 
“ that Miss Arden lel't Mortlake for York- 
shire yesterday.” 

“ Oh ! ” said uncle David, turning to Rich- 
ard again. 

“And the servants went before — two or 
three days ago,” said Sir Richard, looking 
down for a moment, and hastening, under 
that clear eye, to speak a little truth. 

“ Well, I wish she had come with us,” 
said David Arden ; “ but as she could not be 
persuaded, I 'm glad she is making a little 
change of air and scene in any direction. 
By-the-by, Mr. Longcluse, you had a letter, 
had not you, from our friend, Paul Davies ? ” 

“ Yes ; he seemed to think he had found a 
clue — from Paris it was — and I wrote to 
tell him to spare no expense in pushing his 
inquiries, and to draw upon me.” 

“ Well, I have some news to tell you. His 
exploring voyage will come to nothing : you 
did not hear ? ” * 

“No.” 

“ Why, the poor fellow’s dead. I got a 
letter — it reached me, forwarded from 
my house in town, yesterday, from the per- 
son who hires the lodgings — to say he had 
died of scarlatina, very suddenly, and send- 
ing an inventory of the things he left. It is 
a pity ; for he seemed a smart fellow, and 
sanguine about coming to the bottom of it.” 

“ An awful pity ! ” exclaimed Longcluse, 
who felt as if a mountain were lifted from 
his heart, and that the entire firmament had 
lighted up ; “an awful pity ! Are you quite 
sure?” 

“ There can’t be a doubt, I ’m sorry to 
say. Then, as Alice has taken wing. I’ll pur- 
sue my first plan, and cross by the next mail.” 

“For Paris?” inquired Mr. Longcluse, 
carelessly. 

“ Yes, sir, for Paris,” answered untfle Da- 
vid deliberately, looking at him; “yes, for 
Paris.” 

And then followed a little chat on indif- 
ferent subjects. 

Then uncle David mentioned that he had 
an appointment, and must dine with the dull 
but honest fellow who had asked him to meet 
him here on a matter of business, which 
would have done just as well next year, but 
he wished it now. 

Uncle David smiled, nodded, and waved 
his hand, as on entering the door he gave 
them a farewell look over his shoulder. 


CHAPTER LXXVII. 

THE CATACOMBS. 

At his disappearance, for Sir Richard, the 
air darkened as when, in the tropics, the sun 


CHECKMATE. 


163 


sets witliont a twilight, and the silence of 
an awful night descended. 

It seemed that safety had been so near, 
lie had laid his hand upon it, and had let it 
glide ungrasped between his fingers ; and 
noAV the sky was black above him, and an 
unfathomable sea beneath. 

Mr. Longcluse was in great spirits. He 
had grown for a time like the Walter Long- 
cluse of a year before. 

They two dined together, and after dinner 
Mr. Longcluse grew happy, and as he sat 
with his glass by him he sang, looking over 
the waves, a sweet little sentimental song, 
about ships that pass at sea, and smiles and 
tears, and “true boys, true,’’ and “heaven 
shows a glimpse of its blue.'’ And he 
walked with Sir Richard to the station, and 
he said, as he leaned and looked into the 
carriage-window, of which young Arden 
was the only occupant: 

“ Be true to me now, and we may make it 
up yet.” 

And so saying, he gave his hand a single 
pressure as he looked hard in his eyes. 

The bell had rung. He was remaining 
there for another train. The clapping of the 
doors had ceased. He stood back. The 
whistle blew its long piercing yell ; and as 
the train began to glide toward London, the 
young man saw the white face of Walter 
Longcluse in deep shadow, as he stood with 
his back to the lamp, still turned toward him. 

The train was now thundering on its 
course : the solitary lamp glimmered in the 
roof. He threw himself back, with his foot 
against the opposite seat. 

“Good God, what is one to resolve? All 
men are cruel when they are exasperated. 
Might not good yet be made of Longcluse? 
AVhat creatures women are! what fools! 
How easy all might have been ma(]e, with 
the least temper and reflection ! What 
d d selfishness ! ” 

Uncle David was now in Paris. The moon 
was shining over that beautiful city. In a 
lonely street, in a quarter which fashion had 
long forsaken — over whose pavement, as yet 
unconscious of the Revolution, had passed, 
in the glare of torchlight, the carved and 
emblazoned carriages of an aristocracy as 
shadowy jiow as the courts of the Caesars — 
his footsteps Avere echoing. 

A huge house presented its front. He 
stopped, and examined it carefully for a few 
seconds. It was the house of which he was 
in search. 

At one time the Baron Vanboeren had re- 
ceived patients from the countr}”-, to reside 
in this hou.se. For the last year, during 
which he had been gathering together his 
wealth, and detaching himself from busines.s, 
he had discontinued this, and had gradually 
got rid of his establishment. 

When David Arden rang the bell at the 
hall-door, which he had to do repeatedly, it 
was answered at last by an old woman, high- 
shouldered, all skin and bone, with a great 


nose and big jaw-bones, and a high-cauled 
cap. 

This lean creature looked at him with 
a vexed and hollow eye. Her bony arm 
rested on the lock of the hall-door, and she 
blocked the narrow aperture between its 
edge and the massive door-case. She in- 
quired in very nasal French what monsieur 
desir;pd. 

“I wish to see monsieur the baron, if he 
will permit me an interview,” answered Mr. 
Arden, in very fair French. 

“Monsieur the baron is not visible ; but 
if monsieur will, notwithstanding, leave any 
message he pleases for monsieur the baron, 

I will take care he receives it punctually.” 

“ But monsieur the baron appointed me 
to call to-night at ten o’clock,” 

“ Is monsieur sure of that?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“Eh, very well ; but, if he pleases, I 
must first learn monsieur’s name?” 

“ My name is Arden.” 

“I believe monsieur is right.” She took 
a bit of note-paper from her capacious 
pocket, and peering at it spelled aloud, 
“ D-a-v-i-d ” 

“ A-r-d-e-n,” interrupted and continued 
the visitor, spelling his name, with a smile. 

“ A-r-d-e-n,” she followed, reading sloAvly 
from her paper ; “yes, monsieur is right. 
You see, this paper says. Admit Monsieur 
David Arden to an interview. Enter, if you 
please, motisieur, and follow me.” 

It wa.s a decayed house of superb propor- 
tions, but of a fashion long passed away. 

The gaunt old woman, with a bunch of 
large keys clinking at her side, stalked up 
the broad stairs and into a gallery, and 
through several rooms opening en suite. 
'I'he rooms wei-e hung with cobwebs, dusty, 
emY)ty, and the shutters closed, except liere 
and thei’e where the moonlight gleamed 
through chinks and seams. 

David Arden, before he had seen the 
Baron Vanboeren in London, had pictured 
him in imagination a tall old man, with 
classic features, and manners courteous and 
somewhat stately. 

We do not fabricate such images; they 
rise like exhalations from a few scattered 
data, and present themselves spontaneously. 

It is this self-creation that invests them 
with so much reality in our imaginations, 
and subjects us to so odd a surprise when 
the original turns out quite unlike the por- 
trait with which we have been amusing our- 
selves. 

She now pushed open a door, and said: 

“Monsieur the baron, here is arrived 
Monsieur David d’Ardennes.” 

The room in which he now stood was spa- 
cious, and very nearly dark. The shutters 
were closed outside, and the moonlight that 
entered came through the circular hole cut 
in each. A large candle on a bracket burned 
at the farther end of the room. There the 
baron stood, A reflector, which interposed 


164 


CHECKMATE. 


between the candle and the door at which 
David Arden entered, directed its light 
strongly upon something which the baron 
held, and laid upon the table, in his hand; 
and now that he turned toward his visitor, it 
was concentrated upon his large face, reveal- 
ing, with the force of a Rembrandt, all its 
furrows and fine wrinkles. He stood out 
against a background of darkness like a 
figure in a magic-lantern. 

The baron stood before him — a short man 
in a red waistcoat. He boked more broad- 
shouldered and short- necked than ever in 
his shirt-sleeves. He had an instrument in 
his hand resembling a small bit and brace, 
and some chips and sawdust on his flannel 
waistcoat, which he brushed off with two or 
three sweeps of his short fat fingers. He 
looked now like a grim old mechanic. There 
was no vivacity in his putty-colored features, 
but there were promptitude and decision in 
every abrupt gesture. It was his towering, 
bald forehead, and something of command 
and savage energy in his lowering face, that 
redeemed the tout ensemble from an almost 
brutal vulgarity. 

The baron was not in the slightest degree 
“ put out,’' as the phrase is, at being de- 
tected in his present occupation and disha- 
bille. 

He bowed twice to David Arden, and said, 
in English, with a little foreign accent: 

“Here is a chair. Monsieur Arden; but 
you ican hardly see it until your eyes have 
grown a little accustomed to our cr6puscule’’ 

This was true enough, for David Arden, 
though he saw him advance a step or two, 
could not have known what he held in the 
hand that was in shadow. The sound, 
indeed, of the legs of the chair, as he set it 
down upon the floor, he heard. 

“ I should make you an apology, Mr, 
Harden, if I were any longer in my own 
home, which I am not, although this is still 
my house; for I have dismissed my servants, 
sold my furniture, and sent what things I 
oared to retain over the frontier to my new 
habitation, whither I shall soon follow ; and 
this house, too, I shall sell. I have already 
two or three gudgeons nil>bling, monsieur.” 

“ This house must have been the hotel of 
some distinguished family, baron ; it is no- 
bly proportioned,” said David Arden. 

As his eye became accustomed to the 
gloom, David Arden saw traces of gilding 
on the walls. The shattered frames on 
which the tapestry was stretched in old 
times remained in the panels, with crops of 
small, rusty nails visible. The faint candle- 
light glimmered on a ponderous gilded cor- 
nice, which had also sustained violence. The 
floor was bare, with a great deal of litter, 
and some scanty furniture. There was a 
lathe near the spot where David Arden stood, 
and shavings and splinters under his feet. 
There was a great block with a vice attached. 
In a portion of the fireplace was built a fur- 
nace. There were pincers and other instru- 


ments lying about the room, which had 
more the appearance of an untidy workshop 
than of a study, and seemed a suitable enough 
abode for the uncouth figure that’ confronted 
him. 

“ Ha ! monsieur,” growled the baron, 
“ stone walls have ears ; you say if only they 
had tongues, what tales these could tell ! ” 
said the baron, whcf spoke rapidly and ab- 
ruptly as ever, and never smiled. “This 
house was one of Madame du Barry's, and 
was sacked in the great Revolulion. The 
mirrors were let into the plaster in the 
walls. In some of the rooms there are large 
fragments still stuck in the wall so fast, you 
would need a hammer and chisel to dislodge 
and break them up. This room was an 
ante-room or boudoir, and admitted to the 
lady’s bedroom by two doors, this and that. 
The panels of that other, by which you 
entered from the stair, were of mirror. 
They were quite smashed. Th*e furniture, 
I suppose, flew out of the window ; every- 
thing was broken up in small bits, and torn 
to rags, or carried off to the broker after the 
first fury, and sans culotte families came in 
and took possession of the wretched apart- 
ments. ’ You will say then, what was left ? 
The bricks, the stones, hardly the plaster on 
the walls. Yet, Monsieur Arden, I have 
discovered some of the best treasures the 
house contained, and they are at present in 
this room. Are you a collector. Monsieur 
Arden?'' 

Uncle David disclaimed the honorable im- 
putation. He was thinking of cutting all 
this short, and bringing the baron to the 
point. The old man was at the period when 
the egotism of age asserts itself, and was 
garrulous, and being, perhaps, despotic and 
fierce, (he looked both), he might easily take 
fire, and become impracticable. Therefore, 
on second thoughts, he was cautious. 

“ You can now see more plainly,” said the 
baron. “Will you approach? Concealed 
by a double covering of strong paper pasted 
over it, and painted and gilded, each of these 
two doors on its six panels contains six dis- 
tinct masterpieces of Watteau’s. I have 
known that for ten years, and have post- 
poned removing them. Twelve Watteaus, 
as fine as any in the world ! I -would not 
trust their removal to any other hand — and 
so, the panel comes out without a shake. 
Come here, monsieur, if you please. This 
candle affords a light sufficient to see at 
least some of the beauties of these incom- 
parable works.” 

“ Thanks, baron, a glance will suffice; for 
I am nothing of an artist.” 

He approached. It was true that his 
sight had grown accustomed to the obscurity, 
for he could now see the baron’s features 
much more distinctly. His large waxen 
face was shorn smooth, except on the upper 
lip, where .a short mustache still bristled ; 
short black eyebrows contrasted also with 
, the bald massive forehead, and round the 


CHECKMATE. 


165 


eyes was a complication of mean and cun- 
ning wrinkles. Some pecuHar lines between 
these contracted brows gave a character of 
ferocity to this forbidding and sensual face. 

“ Now ! See there I Those four pictures 
— I would not sell those four Watteaus for 
one hundred thousand francs. And the 
other door is w^orth the same Ha ! ” 

“You are lucky, baron/’ 

“ I think so. I do not wish to part with 
them ; I don’t think of selling them. See 
the folds of that brocade ! See the ease 
and grace of the lady in the sack, who 
sits on the bank, there, under the m3’’rtles, 
with the guitar on her lap ! and see the ani- 
mation and elegance of that dancing boy 
with the tambourine! This is a chef- 
d’oeuvre. I ought not to part with that, on 
any terms — no, never! You, no doubt, 
know many collectors, wealthy men, in Eng- 
land. Look at that shot silk, green and 
purple ; and whom do you take that to be a 
portrait of, that lady with the castanets ? ” 

He was pointing out each object, on which 
he descknted, with his stumpy finger — his 
hands being, I am bound to admit, by no 
means clean. 

“ If you do happen to know such people, 
nevertheless, I should not object to your 
telling them where this treasure may be 
seen: I’ve no objection. I should not like 
to part with them, that is true.* No, no, no ; 
but every man may be tempted ; it is possi- 
ble — possible, just possible.” 

“ I shall certainly mention them to some 
friends.” 

“Wealthy men, of course,” said the 
baron. 

“ It is an expensive taste, baron, and none 
but wealthy people can indulge it.” 

“ True, and these would be very expensive. 
They are unique ; that lady there is the Du 
Barry — a portrait worth, alone, six thou- 
sand francs. Ha! he! Yes, when I take 
zese out and place zem, as I mean before I 
go, to be seen, they will bring all Europe 
together. Mit Speck fdngt man Mause — 
with bacon one catches mice ! ” 

“ No doubt they will excite attention, 
baron. But I feel that I am wasting your 
time and abusing your courtesy* in permit- 
ting my visit, the immediate object of which 
was to earnestly beg from you some infornia- 
tion which, I think, no one else can give 
me.” 

“Information? Oh! ha! Pray resume 
your chair, sir. Information ? yes, it is 
quite possible I may have information such 
as you need. Heaven knows ! But know- 
ledge, they say, is power ; and if I do you a 
service, I expect as much from you. Arne 
Hand wasclit dieandWe — one hand, monsieur, 
washes ze ozer. No man parts wiz zat 
which is valuable, to strangers, wizout a 
proper honorarium. I receive no more 
patients here ; but, you understand, I may 
be induced to attend a patient; I may be 
tempted, you understand.” 


“ But this is not a case of attending a pa- 
tient, baron,” said David Arden, a little 
haughtily. 

“ And what ze devil is it, then ?” said the 
baron, turning nn him suddenly. “ Mon- ^ 
sieur will pardon me, but we professional 
men must turn our time and knowledge to 
account, do you see ? And we don’t give 
eizer wizout being paid, and well paid for 
them, eh ? ” 

“ Of course. I meant nothing else,” said 
David Arden. 

“ Then, sir, we understand one another 
so far, and that saves time. Now, what in- 
formation can the Baron Vanboeren give to 
Monsieur David Arden ? ” 

“ I think you would prefer my putting my 
questions quite straight.” 

“ Straight as a sword-thrust, sir.” 

“ Then, baron, I want to know whether 
you were acquainted with two persons, Yel- 
iand Mace and Walter Longcluse.” 

“ Yes, I knew zem boz, slightly and yet 
intimately — intimatel}^ and yet but slighth". 

You wish, perhaps, to learn particulars about 
those gentlemen ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“ Go on ; interrogate.” ‘ 

“ Do you perfectly recollect the features 
of these persons?” • 

“ I ought.” 

“ Can you give me an accurate description 
of Yelland Mace?” 

“ I can bring you face to face with both.” 

“ By Jove ! sir, are you serious ? ” 

“ Mr. Longcluse is in London.” 

“ But you talk of bringing me face to face 
with them ; how soon ? ” 

“ In five minutes.” 

“Oh, you mean a photograph, or a pic- 
ture.” 

“ No, in the solid. Here is the key of the 
catacombs.” And he took a key that hung 
from a nail on the wall. 

“ Bah, ha, yah ! ” exploded the baron, in 
a ferocious sneer, rather than a laugh, and 
shrugging his great shoulders to his ears, he 
shook them in barbarous glee, crying: 

“ What clever fellow you are. Monsieur 
Arden ! you see so well srough ze millstone ! 

Ich bin king und weise — jmu sing zat song ? 

I am intelligent and wise ; eh, he I gra-a, ha, 
ha!” 

He seized the candlestick in one hand, 
and shaking the key in the other by the side 
of his huge forehead, he nodded once or 
twice to David Arden. 

“ Not much life where we are going ; but 
you shall see zem boz.” 

“ You speak riddles, baron ; but by all 
means bring me, as you say, face to face with 
them.” 

“ Very good, monsieur ; you ’ll follow me,” 
said the baron. And he opened a door that 
admitted to the gallery, and, with the can- 
dle and the keys, he led the way, by this 
corridor, to an iron door that had a singular 
appearance, being sunk two feet back in a 


166 


CHECKMATE. 


deep wooden frame that threw it into 
shadow. This he unlocked, and, with an 
exertion of his weight and strength, swung 
slowly open. 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

RESURRECTIONS. 

David Arden entered this door, and found 
himself under a vaulted roof of brick. These 
were the chambers, for there were at least 
two, Avhich the baron termed his catacombs. 
Along both walls of the narrow apartment 
Avere iron presses, that looked like the huge 
ovens of an ogre, sunk deep in the wall, and 
the baron looked himself not an unworthy 
proprietor. 

The baron had the generaPs faculty of re- 
membering faces and names. 

“ Monsieur Yelland Mace ?. yes, I will 
show you him ; he is among the dead.^^ 
“Deadr\ 

“ Ay, zls right side is dead — all zese/’ 

“ Do you mean,’^ said David Arden, ^^lit- 
erally that Yelland Mace is no longer liv- 
ing?- 

“ A, B, C, D, E, F, G,- muttered the 
baron, slowly pointing his finger along the 
right Avail. 

“I beg your pardon, baron, but I don’t 
think you heard me,” said David Arden. 

Per fectly, excuse me: II, I, J, K, L, M 
— M, I Avill shoAv you now, if you desire it, 
Yelland Mace ; you shall see him now, and 
never behold him more. Do you aausIi very 
much ? ” 

“ Intensely — most intensely ! ” said uncle 
David, earnestly. 

The baron turned full upon him, and 
leaned his shoulders against the iron door 
of the press. lie had taken from his pocket 
a bunch of heavy keys, which he dangled 
from his clenched fingers, and they made a 
faint jingle in the silence that followed, for 
a few seconds. 

“ Permit me to ask,” said the baron, “ are 
your inquiries directed to a legal object?” 

“ I have no difficulty in saying yes,” an- 
swered he ; “a legal object, strictly.” 

“ A legal object, by which you gain con- 
siderably ? ” he asked, slowly. 

“ By which I gain the satisfaction of see- 
ing justice done upon a villain.” 

“ That is fine, monsieur. Eternal justice ! 
I have thought and said that very often : 
Vive la justice eternelle! especially when her 
sword shears off the head of my enemy, and 
her scale is laden with napoleons for my 
purse.” 

“ Monsieur le baron mistakes, in my case; 
I have absolutely nothing to gain by the pro- 
cedure I propose ; it is strictly criminal,” 
said David Arden, dryly. 

” Not an estate ? not a slice of an estate ? 
Come, come ! Tliorheit ! That is foolish 
talk.” 

4 


“ I have told you already, nothing,” re- 
peated David Arden. 

“ Then you don’t care, in truth, a single 
nayioleon whether you win or lose. We 
have been Avasting our time, sir. I have no 
time to bestow for nothing; my minutes 
count by the croAvn, while I remain in Paris. 
I shall soon depart, and practise no more ; 
and my time will become my OAvn — still my 
own, by no means yours. I am candid, sir, 
and I think you cannot misunderstand me ; 
I must be paid for my time and opportuni- 
ties.” 

” I never meant anything else,” said Mr. 
Arden, sturdily; “I shall pay you liberally 
for any service you render me.” 

“ That, sir, is equally frank ; we under- 
stand now the principle on which I assist 
you. You wish to see Yelland Mace ; so you 
shall.” 

He turned about, and struck the key 
sharply on the iron door of the safe. 

“ There he waits,” said the baron, “ and 
— did you ever see him ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Bah ! what a wise man. Then I may 
show you whom I please, and you know 
nothing. Have you heard him described?” 

“ Accurately.” 

“Well, there is some little sense in it, 
after all. You shall see.” 

He unlocked the safe, opened the door, and 
displayed sheh^es, laden with rudely-made 
deal boxes, each a little more than a foot 
square. On these were marks and charac- 
ters in red, some, and some in black, an*' 
others in blue. 

“ He ! you see,” said the baron, pointing 
with his key, “my mummies are cased in 
hieroglyphics. Come! Here is the num- 
ber, the date, and the man.” . 

And lifting them carefully one off the 
other, he took out a deal box that had stood 
in the lowest stratum. The cover Avas loose, 
except for a string tied about it. 

He laid it upon the floor, and took out a 
plaster mask, and, brushing and blowing off 
the saAvdust, held it up. 

David Arden saw a face with large eyes 
closed, a very high and thin nose, a good 
forehead, a delicately-chiselled mouth ; the 
upper lip, though well formed after the 
Greek model, projected a little, and gave to 
the chin the effect of receding a little. This 
slight defect showed itself in profile ; but the 
face, looked at full front, Avas on the whole 
handsome, and in somedegreeeA'en interesting. 

“You are quite sure of >the identity of 
this ? ” asked uncle David, earnestly. 

There was a square bit of parchment, with 
two or three short lines in a character which 
he did not knoAv, glued in the concave re- 
verse of the mask. The baron took it, and 
holding the light near, read, “ Yelland Mace, 
suspected for his politics. May 2d, 1844.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Arden, having renewed 
his examination, “ it vory exactly tallies 
Avith the description ; the nose aquiline, but 


CHECKMATE. 


167 


very delicately formed. Is that writino; in 
cipher? 

‘‘ Yes, in cipher/' 

“ And in what language?" 

“German." 

David Arden looked at it. 

“ You will make nothing of it. In these in- 
scriptions, I have employed eight languages 
— five European, and three Asiatic — I am, 
you see, something of a linguist — and four 
distinct ciphers ; so, having that skill, I gave 
the benefit of it to my friends ; this being 
secret." 

“ Secret ? oh ! " said uncle David. 

“Yes, secret; and you will please to say 
nothing of it to any living creature until the 
twenty-first of October next, when I retire. 
You understand commerce, Mr! Arden. My 
practice is confidential, and I should lose 
perhaps eighty thousand francs in the short 
space that intervenes, if I were thought to 
have played a patient such a trick. It is but 
twenty days of reserve, and then I go and 
laugh at them, every one. Piff, puflf! ha, ha!" 

“ Yes, I promise that also," said uncle 
David, dryly, and to himself he thought, 
“ What a consummate old scoundrel !" 

“Very good, sir; we shall not want this 
Yelland Mace again just now ; his face and 
coffin, ha, ha! can rest there for the present." 
lie had replaced the mask in its box, and 
that lay on the floor. The door of the iron 
press he shut and locked. “ Next, I will 
show you Mr. Longcluse : those are dead." 

He waved his short hand toward the row 
of iron doors Avhich he had just visited. 

“ Please, sir, walk with me into this room. 
Ay, so. Here are the resurrections. Will 
you be good enough — L, Longcluse, M, 
one, two, three, four ; three, yes — to hold 
^this candlestick for a moment? " 

The baron unlocked this door, and, after 
some rummaging, he took forth a box similar 
to that he had taken out before. 

“ Yes, right, Walter Longcluse. I tell 
you how you will see it best ; there is bril- 
liant moonlight, stand there." 

Through a circular hole in the wall there 
streamed a beam of moonlight that fell upon 
the plaster-wall opposite with the distinct- 
ness of the circle of a magic-lantern. 

“You see it — you know it! Ha! ha! 
His pretty face ! " 

He held the mask up in the moonlight, 
and the lineaments, sinister enough, of Mr. 
Longcluse stood, sharply defined in every 
line and feature, in intense white and black, 
against the vacant shadow behind. There 
was the flat nose, the projecting under-jaw, 
the oblique, sarcastic eyebrow, even the 
line of the slight but long scar that ran 
nearly from his eye to his nostril. The 
same, but younger. 

“ There is no doubt about that. But when 
was it taken ? Will you read what is writ- 
ten upon it ? " 

Uncle David had taken out the candle, 
and he held it beside the mask. The baron 


turned it round, and read, “Walter Long- 
cluse, 15 th October, 1844." 

“ The same year in which Mace's was 
taken ? " 

“ So it is, 1844." 

“ But there is a great deal more than you 
have read written upon the parchment in 
this one." 

“It looks more." 

“And is more. Why, count the words, 
one, two, four, six, eight. There must be 
thirty or upwards." 

“Well, suppose there are, sir: I have 
read, nevertheless, all I mean to read, for 
the present. Suppose we bring these masks 
together. We can talk a little then ; and I 
will perhaps tell you more, and disclose to 
you some secrets of nature and art, of which 
perhaps you suspect nothing. Come, come, 
monsieur ! kindly take the candle." 

The baron shut the iron door with a clang, 
and locked it, and, taking up the box, 
marched into the next room, and placing the 
boxes one on top of the other, carried them 
in silence out upon the gallery, accompanied 
by David Arden. 

How desolate seemed the silence of the 
vast house, in all which by this time, per- 
haps, there did not burn another light ! 

They now re-entered the large and strange- 
ly-littered chamber in which he had talked 
with the baron, and stopped among the 
chips and sawdust with which his work had 
strewn the floor. 

“ Set the candle on this table," said he. 
“ I '11 light another for a time. See all the 
trouble and time you cost me ! " 

He placed the two boxes on the table. 

“ I am extremely sorry " 

“ Not on my account, you need n't. You'll 
pay me well for it." 

“ So I will, baron." 

“ Sit you down' on that, monsieur." 

He placed a clumsy old chair, with a bal- 
loon-back, for his visitor, and, seating him- 
self upon 'another, he struck his hand on 
the table, and said, arresting for a moment 
the restless movement of his eyes, and fixing 
on him a savage stare: 

“ You shall see wonders and hear marvels, 
if only you are willing to pay what they are 
worth." The baron laughed when he had 
said this. 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 

THE TWO MASKS. 

“ You shall sit here, Mr. Arden," said the 
baron, placing a chair for him. “ You shall 
be comfortable. I grow in confidence with 
you. I feel inwardly an intuition when I 
speak wis a man of honor : my demon, as it 
were, whispers, ‘ Trust him, honor him, 
make much of him.' Will you take a pipe, 
or a mug of beer? " 

This invitation Mr. Arden civilly declined. 


168 


CHECKMATE. 


“Well, I shall have my pipe and beer. 
See, there is the barrel — not far to go.’' 
He raised the candle, and David Arden saw 
for the first time the outline of a veritable 
beer-barrel in the corner, on tressels, such 
as might have regaled a party of boors in 
the clear shadow^of a Teniers. 

“ There is the comely beer-cask, not often 
seen in Paris, in the corner of our boudoir, 
resting against the only remaining rags of 
the sky-blue and gold silk — it is rotten 
now — with which the room was hung, and 
a gilded cornice — it is black now — over its 
head ; and now, instead of beautiful women 
and graceful youths, in gold lace and cut 
velvets and perfunied powder, there are but 
one rheumatic and crooked old woman, and 
one old Prussian doctor, in his shirt-sleeves, 
ha ! ha 1 mutat terra vices ! Come ! we shall 
look at these again, and you shall hear 
more.” 

He placed the two masks upon the chim- 
ney-piece leaning against the wall. 

“.And we will illuminate them,’’ said he, 
and took, one after the other, half-a-dozen 
pieces of wax candle, and, dripping the 
melting wax on the chimney-piece, he stuck 
each candle in a little pool of its own wax. 

“ I spare nothing, you see, to make all 
plain. Those two faces present a marked 
contrast. Do you, Mr. Arden, know any- 
thing, ever so little, of the fate of Yelland 
Mace?” 

“Nothing. Is he living?” 

“ Suppose he is dead, what then ?” 

“ In that case, of course, I take my leave 
of the inquiry, and of you, asking you sim- 
ply one question, whether there was any 
correspondence between Yelland Mace and 
Walter Longcluse ? ” 

“ A very intimate correspondence,” said 
the baron. 

“Of what nature? ” 

“ Ha ! They have been combined in busi- 
ness, in pleasures, in crimes,” said the 
baron. “ Look at them. Can you believe 
it? So dissimilar! They are opposites in 
form and character, as if fashioned in ex- 
pression and in feature each to contradict 
the other ; yet so united I ” 

“ And in crime, you say? ” 

“ Ay, in crime — in all things.” 

“Is Yelland Mace still living?” urged 
David Arden. 

“ Those features, in life, you will never 
behold, sir.” 

“ He is dead. You said that you took that 
mask from among the dead. Is he dead?” 

“ No, sir; not actually dead, but under a 
stratige condition. Bah ! Don’t you see I 
have a secret? Do you prize very highly 
learning where he is ? ” 

“ Very highly, provided he maybe secured 
and brought to trial; and you, baron, must 
arrange to give your testimony to prove his 
identity.” 

“ Yes, that would be indispensable,” said 
.the baron, whose eyes were sweeping the 


room from corner to corner fiercely and 
swiftly. “ Without me you can never lift 
the veil; without me yuu can never unearth 
your skulking Yelland Mace, nor without 
me identify and hang him.” 

“ I rely upon your aid, baron,” said Mr. 
Arden, who was becoming agitated. “ Your 
trouble shall be recompensed ; you may de- 
pend upon my honor.” 

“ I am running a certain risk. I am not 
a fool, though, like little Lebas. I am not 
to be made away with like a kitten ; and 
once I move in this matter, I burn my ships 
behind me, and return to my splendid prac- 
tice under no circumstances ever again.” 

The baron’s pallid face looked more blood- 
less, his accent was fiercer, and his counte- 
nance more frowning as he uttered all this. 

“ I understood, baron, that you had quite 
made up your mind to retire within a very 
few weeks, said David Arden. 

“Does any man who has lived as long as 
you or I, quite trust his own resolution ? 
No one likes to be nailed to a plan of action 
an hour before he need be. I find my prac- 
tice more lucrative every day. I may be 
tempted to postpone my retirement, and for 
a while longer to continue to gather the 
golden harvest that ripens round me. But 
once I take this step, all is up with that. 
You see — you understand. Bah! you are 
no fool ; it is plain, all I sacrifice.” 

“Of course, baron, you shall take no 
trouble, and make no sacrifice, without am- 
ple compensation. But are you aware of the 
nature of the crime committed by that man?” 

I never trouble my head about details; 
it is enough the man is a political refugee, 
and his object concealment.” 

“ But he was no political refugee ; he had 
nothing to do with politics ; he was simply 
murderer and a robber.” 

“ What a rogue ! Will you excuse my 
smoking a pipe and drinking a little beer. 
Now, he never hinted that, although I knew 
him very intimately, for he was my patient 
for some months ; never hinted it, he was so 
sly.” 

“ And Mr. Longcluse, was he your patient 
also?” 

“ Ha ! to be sure he was. You won’t 
drink some beer? No ; well, in a moment.” 

He drew a little jugful from the cask, and 
placed it, and a pewter goblet, on the table, 
and then filled, lighted, and smoked his 
pipe as he proceeded. 

“ 1 will tell you something concerning 
those gentlemen, Mr. Longcluse and Mr. 
Mace, which may amuse you. Listen.” 


CHAPTER LXXX. 

BROKEN. 

“Mr hands were very full,” said the 
baron, displaying his stumpy fingers. “ I 


CHECKMATE. 


169 


received patients in this house ; I had what 
you call many irons in ze fire. I was mak- 
ing napoleons theQ, — I don’t mind telling 
you, — as fast as a man could run bullets. 
My minutes counted by the crown. It was 
in the month of May, 1844, late at night, a 
man called here, wanting to consult me. 
lie called himself Ilerr von Konigsmark. I 
W'ent down and saw him in my audience- 
room. He knew I was to be depended upon. 
Such people tell one another who may be 
trusted. He told me he was an Austrian 
proscribed: very good. He proposed to 
place himself in my handa: very well. I 
looked him in the face : you have there ex- 
actly what I sa\^.” 

He extended his hand toward the mask 
of Yelland Mace. 

“ ‘ You are an Austrian/ I said, ‘ a native 
subject of the empire?’ 

“ ‘ Yes.’ 

“ ‘ Italian ? ’ 

“ ‘ No.’ 

“ ‘ Hungarian ? ’ 

“ ‘ No.’ 

“‘AVell, you are not German — ha! ha! 
— I can swear to that.’ 

“ He was speaking to me in German. 

“ ‘ Your accent is foreign. Come ! con- 
fidence. You must be no impostor. I must 
make no mistake, and blunder into a na- 
tional type of featureSj all wrong; if I make 
your mask, it must do us credit. I know 
many gentlemen’s secrets, and as many 
ladies’ secrets. A man of honor ! What 
are you afraid of ? ’ 

“ You were not a statuary ?” said uncle 
David, astonished at his versatility. 

“ Oh, yes! A statuary, but only in gro- 
tesque; you understand. I will show you 
some of m 3 ' work by-and-by.” 

“ And I shall perhaps understand.” 

“ You shall, 'perfectly. With some reluct- 
ance, then, he admitted that what I posi- 
tively asserted was true ; for I had told him 
I knew from his account he was an English- 
ma.n. Then, with some little pressure, I in- 
vited him to tell his name. He did: it was 
Yelland Mace. That is Yelland Mace.” 

He had now finished his pipe; he went 
over to the chimne 3 '-piece, and having 
knocked out the ashes, and wdth his pipe 
pointing to the tip of the Long, thin, plaster 
nose, he said, “Look well at him. Look 
till you know all his features by rote. Look 
till you fix them for the rest of your days 
well in memory, and then say what in the 
devil’s name you could make of them. Look 
at that high nose, as thin as a fish-knife. 
Look at the line of the mouth and chin ; see 
the mild gentleman-like contour. If you 
find a fellow with a flat nose, and a pair of 
upper tusks sticking out an inch, and a 
squint that turns out one eye like -the 
wdiite of an egg, you pull out the tusks, you 
raise the skin of the nose, slice a bit out of 
the check, and make a false bridge, as high 
as you please ; heal the cheek with a stitch 


or two, and operate with the lancet for the 
squint, and your bust is complete. Bravo ! 
you understand ? ” 

“ I confess, baron, I do not.” 

* “ You shall, however. Here is the case 
— a political refugee, like Monsieur Yelland 
Mace ” 

“ But he was no such thing.” 

“AVell, a criminal — any man in such a 
situation is, for me, a political refugee zat, 
for reasons, desires to revisit his country, 
and yet must be so thoroughly disguised zat 
by no surprise, and by no process, can he be 
satisfactorily recognized ; he comes to me, 
tells me his case, and says, ‘I desire, baron, 
to become your patient,’ and so he places 
himself in my hands, and so — ha ! ha ! 
You begin to perceive ? ” 

“Yes, I do ! I think I understand you 
clearly. But, Lord bless me ! what a nefari- 
ous trade!” exclaimed uncle David. 

The baron was not offended ; he laughed. 

“Nevertheless,” said he, “there’s no 
harm in that. Not that I care much about 
the question of right or wrong in the matter ; 
but there’s none. Bah! who’s the worse 
of his going back ? or, if he did not, who ’s 
the better? ” 

Uncle David did not care to discuss this^ 
point in ethics, but simply said : 

“ And Mr. Longcluse was also a patient 
of yours?” 

‘‘Yes, certainly,” said the baron. 

“We Londoners know nothing of his 
history,” said Mr. Arden. 

“ A political refuse, like Mr. Mace,” said 
the baron, “Now, look at Herr Yelland 
Mace. It was a severe operation, but a 
beautiful one ! I opened the skin with a 
single strjiight cut from under the lachrymal 
gland to the nostril, and one underneath 
meeting it, you see,” (he was tracing the 
line of the scalpel with the stem of his 
pipe,) “ along the base of the nose from the 
point. Then I drew back the skin over the 
bridge, and then I operated on the bone and 
cartilage, cutting them and the muscle at 
the extremity down to a level with the line 
of the face, and drew the flap of skin back, 
cutting it to meet the line of the skin of the 
cheek ; there, you see, so much for the nose. 
Now see the curved eyebrow. Instead of 
that very well marked arch, I resolved it 
should slant from the radix of the nose in a 
straight line obliquely upward ; to effect 
which I removed at the upper edge of each 
eyebrow, at the corner next the temple, a 
portion of the skin and muscle, which being 
reunited and healed, produced the requisite 
contraction, and thus drew that end of each 
brow upward. And now, having disposed 
of the nose and brows, I came to the mouth. 
Look at the profile of this mask.” 

He was holding that of Yelland Mace 
toAvard Mr. Arden, and with the bowl of the 
pipe in his right hand, pointed out the lines 
and features on which he descanted with 
the point of the stem. 


170 


CHECKMATE. 


“ Now, if you observe, the chin in this 
face, by reason of the marked prominence 
of the nose, has the effect of receding ; but 
it does not. If you continue the perpendic- 
ular line of ze forehead, ze chin, you see,* 
meets it. The upper lip, though short and 
well-formed, projects a good deal. Ze under 
lip rather retires, and this adds to the reced- 
ing effect of the chin, you see. My coup- 
d'ceil assured me that it was practicable to 
give to this feature the character of a pro- 
jecting under-jaw. The complete depres- 
sion of the nose more than half accomplished 
it. The rest is done by cutting away two 
upper and four under teeth, and substituting 
false ones at the desired angle. By that 
application of dentistry I obtained zis new 
line.'^ (He indicated the altered outline of 
the features, as before, with his pipe.) “ It 
was a very pretty operation. The effect you 
could hardly believe. He was two months 
recovering, confined to his bed, ha! ha! 
We can’t have an immovable mask of living 
flesh, blood, and bone for nothing. He was 
threatened with erysipelas, and there was a 
rather critical inflammation of the left eye. 
When he could sit up, and bear the light, 
and looked in the glass, instead of thanking 
me, he screamed like a girl. He was glad 
of it afterward : it was so complete. Look 
at it” (he held up the mask of Yelland 
Mace): “ a face, on the whole, good-looking, 
but a little of a parrot-face, you know. I 
took him into my hands with that face, and” 
(taking up the mask of Mr. Longcluse and 
turning it witli a slow oscillation, so as to 
present it in every aspect,) he added, “these 
are the features of Yelland Mace as I sent 
him into the world with the name of Herr 
Longcluse ! ” 

“ You mean to say that Yelland Mace and 
Walter Longcluse are the same person?” 
cried David Arden, starting to his feet. 

“ I swear that here is Yelland Mace before, 
and here after, the operation, call him what 
you please. When I was in London, two 
months ago, I saw Monsieur Longcluse. He 
is Yelland Mace ; and these two masks 
are both masks of the same Yelland Mace.” 

“ Then the evidence is complete,” said 
David Arden, with awe in his face, as he 
stood for a moment gazing on the masks 
which the Baron Vanboeren held up side by 
side. before him. 

“ Ay, the masks, and the witness to ex- 
plain them,” said the baron, sturdily. 

“ It is a perfect identification,” murmured 
Mr. Arden, with his eyes still riveted on 
tlie plaster faces. “Good God! how won- 
derful that proof, so complete in all its 
parts, should remain ! ” 

“Well, I don’t love Longcluse, since so 
he is named ; he disobliged me when I was 
in London,” said the baron. “ Let him 
hang, since so you ordain it. I ’m ready to 
go to London, give my evidence, and pro- 
duce these plaster casts. But my time and 
trouble must be considered.” 


“ Certainly.” 

“Yes,” said the baron; “and to avoid 
tedious arithmetic, and for sake of conveni- 
ence, I will agree to visit London at what 
time you appoint, to bring with me these 
two masks, and to give my evidence against 
Yelland Mace, otherwise Walter Longcluse, 
my stay in London not to exceed a fortnight, 
for five thousand pounds sterling.” 

“ I don’t think, baron, you can be seri- 
ous,” said Mr. Arden, as soon as he had re- 
covered breath. 

“ Donner-wetter ! I will show you that I 
am ! ” bawled the baron. “ Now or never, 
sir. Do as you please. I shan’t abate a 
franc. Do you like my offer? ” 

On the event of this bargain are depend- 
ing issues of which David Arden knows 
nothing; the dangers, the agonies, the sal- 
vation of those who are nearest to him on 
earth. The villain Longcluse, and the whole 
fabric of his machinations, may be dashed 
in pieces by a word. 

How, then, did David Arden, who hated 
a swdndler, answer the old extortioner who 
asked him, “ Do you like my offer? ” 

“ Certainly not, sir,” said David Arden, 
sternly. 

“ Then was scheert’s mich ! Wh9,t do I 
care ! No more, no more about it ! ” yelled 
the baron, in a fury, and dashed the two 
masks to pieces on the hearth-stone at his 
feet, and stamped the fragments into dust 
with his clumsy shoes. 

With a cry, old uncle David rushed for- 
ward to arrest the demolition, but too late. 
The baron, who was liable to such excesses 
of rage, was grinding his teeth, and rolling 
his eyes, and stamping in fury. 

The masks, those priceless records, were 
gone, past all hope of restoration. Uncle 
David felt for a moment so transported with 
anger that I think he was on the point of 
striking him. How it would have fared 
with him if he had, I can’t tell. 

“Now!” howled the baron, “five times 
five thousand pounds would not place you 
where you were, sir. You fancied, perhaps, 
I would stand haggling with you all night, 
and yield at last to your obstinacy. What 
is my answer? The floor strewn with the 
fragments of your calculation. Where will 
you turn — what will you do now ? ” 

“ Suppose I do this,” said uncle David, 
fiercely ; “report to the police what I have 
seen — your masks and all the rest, — and ac- 
complish, besides, all I require, by my own 
evidence as to what I myself saw? ” 

“ And I will confront you, as a witness,” 
said the baron, with a cool sneer, “ and deny 
it all — swear it is a dream, and aid your 
poor relatives in proving you unfit to man- 
age your own money.” 

Uncle David paused for a moment. The 
baron had no idea how near he was at that 
moment to a trial of strength with his Eng- 
lish visitor. 

Uncle David thought better of it, and he 


CHECKMATE. 


171 


contented himself with saying, “ I shall 
have advice, and you shall most certainly 
hear from me again.” 

Forth from the room went David Arden in 
high wrath. Fearing to lose his way, he 
hawled over the balusters, and through the 
corridors, “ Is any one there ? ” and after a 
time, the old woman, who was awaiting him 
in the hall, replied, and he was once more in 
the open street. 

CHAPTER LXXXI. 

DOPPELGANGER. 

It was late ; he did not know or care how 
late. lie was by no means familiar with 
this quarter of the city. He was agitated 
and angry, and did not wish to return to 
his hotel till he had a little walked off his 
excitement. Slowly he sauntered along 
from street to street. 

These were old-fashioned, such as were in 
vogue in the days of the regency. Tall 
houses with gables facing the street; few of 
them showing any light from their windows, 
and their dark outlines discernible on high 
against the midnight sky. 

Noav he heard the voices of people near, 
emerging from a low theatre in the street at 
the right. A number of men came along 
the trottoir toward uncle David. They 
were going to a gaming-house and restaurant 
at the end of the street, which he had nearly 
reached. This troop of idlers he acc’om- 
p;i,nied. They turned into an open door, and 
entered a passage not very brilliantly 
lighted. At the left was the open door of a 
restaurant. The greater number of those 
who entered followed the passage, however, 
which led to the roulette-room. 

As uncle David, with a caprice of curi- 
osity, followed slowly in the wake of this 
accession to the company, a figure passed 
and went before him into the room. 

With a strange thrill, he took or mistook 
this figure for Mr. Longcluse. 

He paused, and saw the tall figure enter 
the roulette-room. 

He followed it as soon as he recollected 
himself a little, apd went into the room. 
The players were, as usual, engrossed by the 
game. But at the far side, beyond these 
busy people, he saw this person, whom he 
recognized by a light gray great-coat, stoop- 
ing with his lips pretty near the ear of a 
man who was sitting at the table. lie raised 
himself in a moment more, and stood before 
uncle David, and at the first glance he was 
quite certain that he saw Mr. Longcluse 
before him. The tall man stood with folded 
arms, and look carelessly round the room, 
and at uncle David among the rest. 

“ Here,” he thought, “ is the man ; and 
the evidence, clear and conclusive but an 
hour ago, and so near this very spot, now 
reduced to dust and fragments, and the wit- 


ness who might have clenched the case 
utterly impracticable ! ” 

This tall man, however, he began to per- 
ceive, had points, and strong ones, of dis- 
similarity, notwithstanding his general re- 
semblance to Mr. Longcluse. His beard and 
hair were red ; his shoulders were broader, 
and very round ; much clumsier and more 
powerful he looked ; and there was an air 
of vulgarity and swagger and boisterous 
good'spirits about him certainly in marked 
contrast with Mr. Lougcluse’s very quiet de- 
meanor. 

Uncl6 David now found himself in that un- 
comfortable state of oscillation between two 
opposite convictions which, in a matter of 
supreme importance, amounts very nearly 
to torture. 

This man did not appear at all put out by 
Mr. Arden’s presence, nor even conscious 
of 'it. A place became vacant at the table, 
and he took it, and staked some money, and 
went on, and won and lost, and at last 
yawned and turned away, and walked slowly 
round to the door near which David Arden 
was standing. 

Was not this the very man whom he had 
seen for a moment on board the steamer, as 
he crossed? 

As he passed a jet of gas, the light fell 
upon his face at an angle that brought out 
lines that seemed familiar to the English- 
man, and for the moment determined his 
doubts. 

David Arden, with his eyes fixed upon 
him, said, as he was about to pass him : 

“ How d’ ye do, Mr. Longcluse? 

The gentleman stopped, smiled, and 
shrugged. • 

“Pardon, monsieur,” he said, in French ; 
“I'do not speak English or German.” 

The quality of the voice that spoke these 
words was, he tliought, different from Mr. 
Longcluse’s — less tone, less depth, and 
more nasal. 

The gentleman paused and smiled, with 
his head inclined, evidently expecting to be 
addressed in French. 

“I believe I have made a mistake, sir,” 
hesitated Mr. Arden. 

The gentleman inclined his head lower, 
smiled, and waited patiently for a second or 
two. Mr. Arden, a little embarrassed, 
said : 

“ I thought, monsieur, I had met you 
before in England.” 

“ I have never been in England, mon- 
sieur,” said the patient and polite gentle- 
man ; “ I cannot have had the honor, there- 
fore, of meeting monsieur there” . 

He paused politely. 

“ Then I have only to make an apology. 

I beg your — I beg — but— but surely — I 
think — by Jove!” he broke into English, 

“I can’t be mistaken — you are Mr. Long- 
cluse.” 

The tall gentleman looked so unaffectedly 
puzzled, and so politely good-natured, as he 


172 


CHECKMATE. 


# ^ • 

resumed, in the tones which seemed per- 
fectly natural, and yet one note in which 
’David Arden failed to recognize, and said ; 

“ Monsieur must not trouble himself of 
fiaving made a mistake: my name is St. 
Ange/^ 

“ 1 believe I have made a mistake, mon- 
sieur ; pray excuse me.^'- 

The gentleman bowed very ceremoniously, 
and Monsieur St. Ange walked slowly out, 
and drank a glass of cura^oa in the passage 
on the way. 

As he was paying the garden, Mr. Arden 
again appeared, once more in a state of un- 
certainty, and again leaning to the belief 
that this person was indeed the Mr. Long- 
cluse who at present entirely possessed his 
imagination. 

Tlie tall stranger wdth the round shoulders 
in truth resembled the person who, in a mid- 
night interview on Hampstead Heath, had 
discussed some momentous questions with 
Paul Davies, as we remember ; but that 
person spoke in the peculiar accent of the 
northern border. His beard, too, was exor- 
bitant in length, and flickered wide and red, 
in the wdnd. This beard, on Uie contrary, 
w'as short and trim, and hardly so red, I 
think, as that moss-trooper’s. On the whole, 
the likeness in both cases w’as somewhat 
rude and general. Still, the resemblance 
to Longcluse again struck Mr. Arden so 
powerfully, that he actually followed him 
into the street, and overtook him only a 
dozen steps away from the door, on the now 
silent pavement. 

Hearing his hurried step behind him, the 
object of his pursuit turned about, and con- 
fronted him for the first time with an oflPend- 
ed and haughty look. 

“Monsieur!” said he, a little grimly, 
drawing himself up as he c^ame to a sudden 
halt. 

“ The impression has forced itself upon 
me again that you are no other than Mr. 
Walter Longcluse,” said uncle David. 

The tall gentleman recovered his good- 
humor, and smiled as before, with a 
shrug. 

“ 1 have not the honor of that gentleman’s 
acquaintance, monsieur, and cannot tell, 
therefore, whether he in the least resembles 
me. But as this kind of thing is unusual, 
and grows wearisome, and may end in put- 
ting me out of temper — which is not easy, 
although quite possible — and as my assur- 
ance that I am really myself, and not another 
person, seems insufficient to convince mon- 
sieur, I shall be happy to offer other evidence 
of the most unexceptionable kind. My 
house is only two streets distant. There my 
wife and daughter await me, and our cure' 
partakes of our little supper at twelve. I 
am a little late,” said he, listening, for the 
clocks were chiming twelve ; “ however, it is 
a little more than two hundred metres, if 
you will accept my invitation, and I shall be 
very happy to introduce you to my wife, to 


my daughter Clotilde, and to our good cur6, 
who is a most agreeable man. Pray come, 
share our little supper, see what sort of peo- 
ple w^e are, and in this way — more agree- 
able, I hope, than any other, and certainly 
less fallacious — you can ascertain whether 
I am Monsieur St. Ange, or that other gen- 
tleman with whom you are so obliging as to 
confound me. Pray come; it is not much 
— a fricassee, a few cutlets, an omelette, and 
a glass of wine. Madame St. Ange will be^ 
charmed to make your acquaintance, my 
daughter will sing us a song, and you will 
say that Monsieur le Cure is really a most 
entertaining companion.” 

There w'as something so simple and thor- 
oughly good-natured in this invitation, under 
all the circumstances, that Mr. Arden felt a 
little ashamed of his persistent annoyance 
of so hospitable a fellow, and for the mo- 
ment he was convinced that he must have 
been in error. 

“ Sir,” said David Arden, “I am now con- 
vinced that I must have been mistaken; but 
I cannot deny myself the honor of being 
presented to Madame St. Ange, and I assure 
you I am quite ashamed of the annoyance I 
must have caused you, and I beg to offer a 
thousand apologies.” 

“ Not one, pray,” said the Frenchman, 
with great good-humor and gayety. “ I feli- 
citate myself on a mistake which promises 
to result so happily.’^ 

So side by side, at a leisurely pace, they 
pursued their w'ay through these silent 
streets, and unaccountably the conviction 
again gradually stole over uncle David that 
he was actually walking by the side of 
Mr. Longcluse. 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 

DEATH OF BARON VANBOEREN. 

The fluctuations of Mr. Arden’s convic- 
tion continued. His new acquaintance 
chatted gayly. They passed a transverse 
street, and he saw him glance quickly 
right and left with a shrewd eye that did 
not quite accord with his seemingly care- 
less demeanor. 

Here for a moment the moonlight fell 
full upon them, and the effect of this new 
light was, once more, to impair Mr. Arden’s 
confidence in his last conclusions about this 
person. Once more he was at sea as to his 
identity. 

There were the gabble and vociferation 
of two women quarrelling in the street to 
the left, and three tipsy fellows, marching 
home, were singing a trio some way up the 
street to the right. 

They had encountered but one figure — a 
seedy scrivener, slip-shod, shuffling his way 
to his garret, with a baize bag of law papers 
to copy in his left hand, and a sheaf of quills 


CHECKMATE. 


173 


in bis right, and a pale, careworn face 
turned up toward the sky. The streets 
were growing more silent and deserted as 
they proceeded. 

He was sauntering onAvard by the side of 
this urbane and garrulous stranger, ^'hen, 
like a whisper, the thought came, “Don't go 
a step further with him !" 

David Arden stopped short. 

“Eh, bien?" said his polite companion, 
Stopping simultaneously, and scaring in his 
face a little grimly. 

“On reflection, monsieur, it is so late, 
that I fear I should hardly reach my hotel 
in time if I were to accept your agreeable 
invitation, and letters probably await me, 
which I should, at least, read to-night." 

“ Surely monsieur Avill not disappoint me 
— surely monsieur is not going to treat 
me so oddly?" expostulated Monsieur St. 
Ange. 

“ Good-night, sir. Farewell !" said David 
Arden, raising his hat as he turned to go. 

There intervened not two yards between 
them, and the polite Monsieur St. Ange 
made a stride after him, and extended his 
hand — whether there was a weapon in it I 
know not ; but he exclaimed, fiercely : 

“ Ha ! robber ! My purse ! " 

Fortunately, perhaps, at that moment, 
from a lane only a few yards away emerged 
two gendarmes, and Monsieur St. Ange ex- 
claimed, “Ah, monsieur, mille pardons! 
Here it is 1 All safe, monsieur. Pray ex- 
cuse my mistake as frankly as I have ex- 
cused yours. Adieu \ ” 

Monsieur St. Ange raised his hat, shrugged, 
smiled, and withdrew. 

Uncle David though!, on the whole, he 
Avas Avell rid of his ambiguous acquaintance, 
and strode along beside the gendarmes, Avho 
civilly directed him upon his way, Avhich he 
had lost. 

So, then, upon Mr. Longcluse’s fortunes 
the sun shone; his star, it Avoiild seem, Avas 
in the ascendant. If the evil genius Avho 
ruled his destiny Avas contending, in a chess 
game, with the good angel of Alice Arden, 
her game seemed pretty well lost, and the 
last move was near. 

When David Arden reached his hotel, a 
note awaited him, in the hand of the Baron 
Vanboeren. He read it under the gas in the 
hall. It said : 

“We must, in this world, forgive and reconsider many 
things. I therefore pardon you, you me. So* soon as you 
have slej)t upon our conversation, you will accept an offer 
which I cannot modify. I always proportion the burden to 
the back. The rich pay me handsomely ; for the poor I 
have prescribed and operated, sometimes, for nothing! 
A'ou have the good fortune, like myself, to be childless, 
wifeless, and rich. AVhen I take a fancy to a thing, noth- 
ing 8toi)S me ; you, no doubt, in like manner. The 
trouble is something to me ; the danger, which you count 
nothing, to me is much. The compensation I name, esti- 
mated without the circumstances, is large: compared 
M’ith my wealth, trifling ; compared with your wealth, 
nothing ; as the condition of a transaction between you 
and me, therefore, not worth mentioning. The accident 
of last night I can repair. '1 he original matrix of each 
mask remains safe in my liands: from this I can multij)ly 
casts ad libitum. Both these matrices I will hammer 


into powder at twelve o’clock to-morrow night, unless my 
liberal offer shall have been accepted before that hour. 

“I write to a man of honor. We understand one 
another. 

“ Emm.\nuel Vanboeren.” 

The ruin, then, was not irretrievable; and 
there Avas time to take advice, and think it 
OA^er. In the baronet’s brutal letter there 
was a coarse logic, not without it§ weight. 

In better spirits, David Arden betook him- 
self to bed. It A-^exed him to think of sub- 
mitting to the avarice of that wicked old ex- 
tortioner ; but to that submission, reluctant 
as he is, it seems probable he Avill come. 

And now his thoughts turned upon the 
hospitable Monsieur St. Ange, and he began, 

I must admit not altogether without reason, 
to reflect what a fool he had been. He won- 
dered whether that hospitable and polite 
gentleman had intended to murder him, at 
the moment Avhen the gendarmes so luckily 
appeared. And in the midst of his specu- 
lations, overpowered by fatigue, he fell 
asleep, and ate his breakfast next morning 
very happily. 

Uncle David had none of that small diplo- 
matic genius that helps to make a good at- 
torney. That sort of knowledge of human 
nature would have prompted a careless re- 
ception of the baron’s note, and an entire 
absence of that promptitude which seems to 
imply an anxiety to seize an ofier. 

Accordingly, it was at about eleven o’clock 
in the morning that he presented himself at 
the house of the Boron Vanboeren. 

lie Avas not destined to conclude a recon- 
ciliation with that German noble, nor to 
listen to his abrupt loquacity, nor ever more 
to discuss or negotiate anything whatsoever 
Avith him, for the Baron Vanboeren had 
been found that morning close to his hall- 
door on the floor, shot with no less than 
three bullets through his body, and his. pipe 
in both hands clenched to his blood-soaked 
breast like a crucifix. 

The baron is not actually dead. He has 
been hours insensible. He cannot live; and 
the doctor says that neither speech nor recol- 
lection AA’iU return before he dies. 

By Avhose hands, for what cause, in what 
manner, the world had lost that excellent 
man, no one could say. A great variety of 
theories prevailed on the subject. 

He had sent the old servant for Pierre la 
Roche, whom he employed as a messenger, 
and he had given him at about a quarter to 
eleA^en a note addressed to David Arden, Es- 
quire, which Avas no doubt that which Mr. 
Arden had received. 

Had Heaven decreed that this investiga- 
tion should come to naught? 

This bloAv seemed irremediable. 

David Arden, howeA'er, had, as I men- 
tioned, official friends, and it struck him 
that he might thritugh them obtain access to 
the room in which his intervicAv Avith the 
baron had taken place ; and that an in- 
genious and patient artist in plaster might 


4 


174 


CHECKMATE. 


be found who would search out the matrices, 
or, at worst, piece the fragments of the mask 
together, and so, in part, restore the demol- 
ished evidence. 

It turned out, however, that the destruc- 
tion of these relics was too complete for any 
such experiments ; and all that now remained 
was, upon the baron’s letter of the evening 
before, to move in official quarters for a 
search for those “matrices” from which it 
was alleged the masks were taken. 

This subject so engrossed his mind, that 
it was not until after his late dinner that he 
began once more to think of Monsieur St. 
Ange and his resemblance to Mr. Longcluse ; 
and a new suspicion began to envelop those 
gentlemen in his imagination. A thought 
struck him, and up got uncle David, leaving 
his wine unfinished^ and a few minutes more 
saw him in the telegraph office, writing the 
following message : 

“ From Monsieur David Arden, etc., to Monsieur 
Blount, 5, Manchester Buildings, Westminster, London. 

“ Pray telegraph immediately to say whether Mr. 
Longcluse is at his house, Bolton Street, Piccadily.” 

'No answer reached him that night ; but 
in the morning he found a telegram dated 
11.30 of the previous night, which said: 

“ Mr. Longcluse is ill at his house at Richmond — bet- 
ter to-day.” 

To this promptly he replied: 

“ See him, if possible, immediately at Richmond. The 
surrender of the lease in Crown Alley will be an excuse. 
See him, if there. Ascertain with certainty where. Tele- 
graph immediately.” 

No answer had reached uncle David at 
three o’clock p. m.; he had despatched his 
message at nine. He was impatient, and 
walked to the telegraph office to make in- 
quiries, and to grumble. He sent another 
message in querulous and peremptory lacon- 
ics. But no answer came till near twelve 
o’clock, when the following was delivered to- 
him : 

“ Yours came while out. Received at 6 p. m. Saw Long- 
cluse at Richmond. Looks seedy. Says he is all right 
now.” 

He read this twice or thrice, and lowered 
the hand whose fingers held it by the cor- 
ner, and looked up, taking a turn or two 
about the room ; and he thought what a 
precious fool he must have appeared to 
Monsieur St. Ange, and then again, with 
another view of that gentleman’s character, 
what an escape he had possibly had. 

So there was no distraction any longer, 
and he directed his mind now exclusively 
upon the distinct object of securing posses- 
sion of the moulds from which the masks 
were taken ; and for many reasons it is not 
likely that very much will come of his 
search. 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

AT MORTLAKE. 

Events do not stand still at Mortlake. It 
is now about four o’clock on a fine autumnal 
afternoon. 

Since we last saw her, Alice Arden has 
not once sought to pass the hall-door. It 
would not have been possible for her to 
do so. 

No one passed that barrier without a 
scrutiny, and the aid of the key of the man 
who kept guard at the door, as closely as 
ever did the officer at the hatch of the 
debtor’s prison. 

The suite of five rooms up-stairs, to which 
Alice is now strictly confined, is not only 
comfortable but luxurious. It had been 
fitted up for his own use by Sir Reginald, 
years before he exchanged it for those rooms 
down stairs which, as he grew older, he 
preferred. 

Levi, every day, visited the house, and 
took a report of all that was said and planned 
up-stairs, in a tete-d-tete with Phebe Chif- 
finch, in the great parlor among the por- 
traits. 

The girl was true to her young and help- 
less mistress, and was in her confidences, 
outwitting the rascally Jew, who every time, 
by Longcluse’s order, bribed her handsomely 
for the information that was misleading hiiii. 

From Phebe the young lady concealed no 
pang of her agony. Well was it for her that 
in their craft they had exchanged the com- 
paratively useless Miss Diaper for this poor 
girl, on whose apprenticeship to strange ways, 
and a not very fastiefious life, they relied for 
a clever and unscrupulous instrument. Per- 
haps she had more than the cunning they 
reckoned upon. “ But I ’ave took a liking 
to ye, miss, and they’ll not make nothing of 
Phebe Chiffinch.” 

Each evening Mr. Levi was in attendance; 
and this day, according to rule, she went 
down to the grand old dining-room. 

“ How’sh Mish Chiffinch?” asked the lit- 
tle Jew, advancing to meet her; “how’sh 
her grashe the duchess, in the top o’ the 
houshe? Ish my Lady Mount-garret ash 
proud ash ever ? ” 

“Well, I do think, Mr. Levi, there’s a 
great change ; she’s l^in growing better the 
last two days, and she’s got a letter last 
night that’s seemed to please her.” 

“ Wha-at letter? ” 

“ The letter you gave me last night for 
her.” 

“ 0-oh ! Ah ! I wonder — eh ? Do you hap- 
pen to know what wazh in it?” he asked, 
in an insinuating whisper. 

“ No I, Mr. Device. She don’t trust me 
not as far as you’d throw a bull by the horns. 
You might ’ave managed that better. You 
must ’a frightened her some way about me. 
I try to be agreeable all I can, but she won’t 
a-look at me.” 


# 


p 


CHECKMATE. * 175 


“AVell, I don’t want to know, Tm sure. 
Did she try to go out since? ” 

“ No ; there’s a frost in the air still, 
and she says till that’s gone she won’t stir 
out.” 

“ Any more newshe ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Wait a minute ’ere,” said Mr. Levi, and 
he went into the room beyond this, where 
she knew there were writing materials. 

She waited some time, and at length took 
the liberty of sitting down. 

She was kept a good while longer. The 
sun went down ; the drowsy crimson that 
heralds night overspread the sky. She 
coughed ; several fits of coughing she tried 
at short intervals. Had Mr. Levice, as she 
called him, forgotten her? He came out at 
length in the twilight. 

“ Shtay you ’ere a few minutes more,” 
said that gentleman, as he walked thought- 
fully through the room, and paused.' “ You 
wazh asking yesterday where ish Sir Rich- 
ard Harden. Well, hizh took hishelf off to 
Harden in Yorkshire, and he’ll not be ’ome 
again for a week.” Having delivered this 
piece of intelligence, he nodded, and slowly 
went to the hall, and closed the door care- 
fully. She followed to the door, and listened. 
There was plainly a little fuss going on in 
the hall. She heard feet in motion, and low 
talking. She was curious, and would have 
peeped, but the door was secured on the 
outside. 

The twilight had de^ened, and for the 
first time she saw that a ray of candle-light 
came through the keyhole from the inner 
room. She opened the door, and saw a gen- 
tleman writing at the table. He was quite 
alone. He turned and rose : a tall gentle- 
man with a singular countenance that star- 
tled her, and a very pale face. 

“You are Phebe Chifiinch,” said a deep, 
clear voice, sternly, as the gentleman pointed 
towards her with the plume end of the pen 
he held in his fingers. “lam Mr. Longcluse. 
It is I who have sent you two pounds each 
day, by Levi. I hear you have got it all 
right.” 

The girl curtsied, and said, “Yes, sir,” 
at the second effort, for she was startled. 

“ Well, here are ten pounds,” and 'he 
handed her a rustling new note by the cor- 
ner. “ I’ll treat you liberally, but you must 
speak truth, and do exactly as you are or- 
dered by Levi.” She curtsied again. 
There was something in that gentleman that 
frightened her awfully. 

“ If you do so, I mean to give you a hun- 
dred pounds when this business is over. I 
have paid you as my servant, and if you de- 
ceive me. I’ll punish you ; and there are two 
or three little things they complain of at the 
Guy of Warwick, down there, and”^|i(he 
swore a hard oath) “you shall hear of them, 
if you do.” 

She curtsied, and felt, not angry, as she 
would if any one else had said it, but fright- 


ened, for Mr. Longcluse’s was a name of 
power at Mortlake. 

“You gave Miss Arden a letter last night. 
You know what was in it? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ What was it ? ” 

“ An offer of marriage from you, sir.” 

Yes ; how do you know that? ” 

“She told me, please, sir.” 

“ How did she take it? Come, don’t be 
afraid.’’ 

“ I ’d say it pleased her well, sir.” 

He looked at her in great surprise, and 
was silent for a time. 

He repeated his question, and, receiving 
a similar answer, reflected on it. 

“ Yes ; it is the best way out of her 
troubles ; she begins to see that,” he said, 
with a strange smile. 

He walked to the chimney-piece, and 
leaned on it; and forgot the presence of 
Phebe. She was too much in awe to make 
any sign. Turning, he saw her, suddenly. 

“ You will receive some directions from 
Mr. Levi ; now take care you understand 
and execute them.” 

He touched the bell, and Levi opened the 
door ; and she and that person walked to- 
gether to the foot of the stair, where, in a 
low tone, they talked. 


CHAPTER LXXXIY. 

THE CRISIS. 

When Phebe Chiffinch returned to Alice’s 
room, a brilliant moon was shining on the old 
trees, and throwing their shadows on the 
misty grass. The landscape from these up- 
per windows was sad and beautiful, and 
above the distant trees that were softened 
by the haze of night rose the silvery spire 
of the old church, in whose vault her father 
sleeps with a cold brain, thinking no more 
of mortgages and writs. 

Alice had been wondering what had de- 
tained her so long, and by the time she ar- 
rived had become very much alarmed. 

Relieved when she entered, she was again 
struck with fear when Phebe Chifiinch had 
come near enough to enable her to see her 
face. She was deadly pale, and with her 
eyes fixed on her, raised her finger in warn- 
ing, and then glanced at the door which she 
had just closed. 

Her young mistress got up and approached 
her, also growing paki, for she perceived that 
some new danger was at the door. 

“I wish there was bolts to these doors. 
They ’ve got the keys. Never mind ; I know 
it all now,” she whispered, as she walked 
softly up to the end of the room farthest from 
the door. “ I said I ’d stand by you, my 
lady ; don’t you lose heart. They ’re com- 
ing here in about an hour.” 

“ For God’s sake, what is it?” said Alice, 


176 


CHECKMATE. 


% 


faintly, her eyes gazing wider and wider, 
and her very lips growing white. 

“There ^8 work before us, my lady; and 
there must be no fooling, said the girl, a 
little sternly. “ Mr. Levice, please, has told 
me a deal, and all they expect from me, the 
villains. Are you strong enough to take your 
part in it, miss? If not, best be quiet; best 
for both.'^ 

“ Yes ; quite strong, Phebe. Are we to 
leave this?^' 

“ I hope, miss. We can but try.’^ 

“ There ^s light, Phebe, she said, glancing 
with a shiver from the window. “It's a bright 
night.’^ . 

“ 1 wish ’t was darker ; but mind you what 
I say. Longcluse is to be here in an hour. 
Your brother's coming, God help you ! and 
that little limb o’ Satan, that black-eyed, 
black-nailed,dirty little Jew, Levice! They’re 
not in town, they ’re out together near this, 
where a man is to meet them with writings. 
There ’s a license got; Christie Vargers saw 
Mr. Longcluse showing it to your brother. 
Sir Richard ; and I dare n’t tell Yargers that 
I ’m for you. He’d never do nothing to vex 
Mr. Levice, he daren’t. There’s a parson 
here, a rum un, you may be sure. I think I 
know something about him; Vargers does, 
lie ’s in the room now, only one away from 
this, next the stair-head, and Vargers is put 
to keep the door in the same room. All the 
doors along, from one room to t’ other, is 
open, from this to the stairs, except the last, 
wdiich Vargers has the key of it ; and all the 
doors opening from the rooms to the gallery 
is locked, so as you can’t get out o’ this ’ere 
without passing through the one where par- 
son is, and Mr. Vargers, please.” 

“ 1 ’ll speak to the clergyman,” whivspered 
Alice, extending her hands toward the fiir 
door; “ God be thanked, there ’s a good man 
here, and he ’ll save me ! ” 

“La, bless you, child! why, that parson 
had his two pen’orth long ago, and spends 
half his nights in the lock-up.” 

“ I don’t understand, Phebe.” 

“He had two years. lie’s bin in jail, 
miss, Vargers says, as often as he has lingers 
and toes ; and he ’s at his brandy and water 
as I came through, with his feet on the fen- 
der, and his pipe in his mouth. He ’s here 
to marry you, please ’m, to Mr. Longcluse, 
and there’s all the he’ll do you; and 
your brother will give you away, miss, and 
Levice and Vargers for witnesses, and me, I 
dessay. It’s every bit harranged, and they 
don’t care the rinsing of a quart pot what 
you say or do; for through with it, slicks 
they ’ll go, and say ’t was all right, in spite 
of all you can do ; and who is there to make 
a row’ about it? Not you, after all’s done.” 

“ We must get aw’ay! I’ll lose my life, 
or I ’ll escape ! ” 

Phebe looked at her in silence. I think 
she was measuring her strength, and her 
nerve, for the undertaking. 

“ Well, ’m, it’s time it was begun. Here ’s 


your cloak, miss. I ’ll tie a handkerchief over 
my head, if we get out; and here ’s the three 
keys, betwixt the bed and the mattress.” 

After a moment’s search on her knees, she 
produced them. 

They were forged. “ The big one and 
this I ’ll keep, and you ’ll manage this other, 
please; take it in your right hand— you 
must use it first. It opens the far door of 
the room where Vargers is, and if you get 
through, you ’ll be at the stair-head, then. 
Don’t you come in after me, till you see I 
have Vargers’ eye engaged another way. Go 
through as light as a bird flies, and take the 
key out of the door, at the other end, when 
you unlock it ; and close it softly, else he ’ll 
see it, and have the house about our ears; 
and you know the big window at the draw- 
ing-room lobby, w^ait in the hollow of that 
window till I come. Do you understand, 
please, miss? ” 

Alice did, perfectly. 

“ Hish — sh ! ” said the maid, with a pro- 
longed caution. 

A dead silence followed ; for a minute — 
seyeral minutes — neither seemed to breathe. 

Phebe whispered, at length : 

“ Now, miss, are you ready ? ” 

“Yes,” she whispered, and her heartbeat 
for a moment as if it would suffocate her, 
and then was still ; an icy chill stole over 
her, and, as on tip-toe she followed Phebe, 
she felt as if she glided without weight or, 
contact, like a spirit. 

Through a dark room they passed, very 
softly ; first, a little light under the door 
showed that there were candles in the next. 
Phebe opened the door, and entered. 

Standing back in the shadow, Alice saw 
the room. The parson was not the sort of 
contraband clergyman she had fancied, by 
any means, but a hectic man of some four- 
and-thirty years, only looking a little dazed 
by brandy and water, and far gone in con- 
sumption. Handsome thin features, and a 
suit of seedy black, and a white choker, in- 
dicated that lost gentleman, who was crying 
silently as he smoked his pipe, I dare say a 
little bit tipsy, gazing into the fire, with his 
brandy and water at his elbow. 

“Eh! Mr. Vargers, smoking after all I 
said to you?” murmured Miss Phebe, se- 
verely, advancing toward her round-shoul- 
dered sweetheart. 

Mr. Vargers replied pleasantly; and as 
this tender “chaff” flew lightly between the 
interlocutors, the parson looked still into the 
fire, hearing nothing of their play and ban- 
ter, but sunk deep in the hell of his sorrow- 
ful memory. 

As Phebe talked on, and Vargers grew 
agreeable and tender, she saw vvith a thrill, 
imperfectly, just with the “ corner of her 
eye^” something pass behind them swiftly 
toward the outer door. The crisis, then, had 
come. For a moment there seemed a sudden 
light before her eyes, and then a dark mist ; 
in another, it was gone. 


177 


CHECKMATE. 


If he had been looking on her with an eye 
of sii55picion, he might have seen her color 
change. But Phebe Avas quick-witted and 
prompt, and saying: 

“ Well, dear, aint I a fool, leaving the 
lady’s door open? Look ye, noAV, Mr. Var- 
gers, she ’s lying fast asleep on her bed ; and 
that’s the reason I took courage to come here 
and ask a favor. But I ’d rayther you ’d lock 
her door, for if she waked and missed me 
she ’d be out here, and all the fat in the fire.” 

“ I dessay you ’re right, miss,” said he, 
with a more business-like gallantry ; and as 
he shut the door and fumbled in his pocket 
for the key, she stole a look over her shoulder. 

The room was empty, and the door at the 
other end closed. 

With a secret shudder, she thanked God in 
her heart, while, with a laugh, she slapped 
Mr. Vargers’ lusty shoulder, and said, whee- 
dlingly, “ And now for the favor, Mr. Yar- 
gers : you must let me down to the kitchen 
for five minutes.” I 

A little banter and sparring followed, 
vsLich ended in Vargers kissing her in spite 
of the usual squall and protest; and on his 
essaying to let her out, and finding the door 
unlocked, he swore that it was well she had 
asked, as “he’d ’av got it ’ot and ’eavy for 
forgetting to lock it when the ‘swells’ 
came up.” 

The door closed upon her ; so far the en- 
terprise was successful. 

She stood at the head of the stairs: she 
went down a few steps and listened ; then 
cautiously she descended. The moon shone 
resplendent through the great Avindow at 
the landing below the draAving-room. It 
AA'as that at which uncle David had paused 
to listen to the minstrelsy of Mr. Longcluse. 
Here, in that flood of white light, stood 
Alice Arden, like a statue of fear. The 
girl, without saying a word, took her by 
the cold hand, and led her quickly down to 
the arch that opens on the hall. 

Just as they reached this point, the door 
of the room in the hall occupied by the man 
who did duty as porter, opened, and step- 
ping out Avith a candle in his hand, he 
called, in a savage tone : 

“Who’s there?” 

Phebe pushed Alice’s hand in the direc- 
tion of the passage that leads to the house- 
keeper’s room, Avhich hint she noiselessly 
took, and entered that corridor as Phebe 
advanced to ansAA^er his challenge. Happily 
his suspicions Avere not roused, Phebe oc- 
cupied a confidential post in this strange 
prison, and the man ofi’ered no obstruction 
to her going on, as she pretended, to the 
kitchen, and withdrew again into his place. 

In a moment more Phebe and Alice Avere 
at the door Avhich, seldom locked, except 
Avhen the house Avas shut up, admitted to a 
passage leading laterally to the side of the 
house. This door Phebe unlocked, and 
when they had entered, locked again on t»he 
inside. They stood noAV' in the passage 
12 


leading to a side door, to which a feAV paces 
brought them. She opened it. The c(*Id 
night air entered, and they stepped out 
upon the grass. She locked the door behind 
them, and threAV the key among the nettles 
that greAV in a thick grove at her right. 

“Hold my hand, my lady; it’s near 
done now,” she Avhispered, encouragingly; 
and having listened for a fcAv seconds, and 
looked up to see if any light appeared in 
the windows, she ventured, with a beating 
heart, from under the deep shadow of the 
house into tlie bright, broad moonlight, and 
with light steps together they sped across 
the grass, and reached the cover of a long 
grove of tall trees and underAvood. All was 
silent here. 

Soon a distant shouting brings them to a 
terrified stand-still. 

Breathlessljq Phebe. listens. 

No ; it Avas not from the house. 

They resume their flight. 

Now under the ivy-laden .branches of a 
tall old tree an oavI startles them with its 
shriek. 

As Alice stares around her, Avhen thew 
stop in such momentary alarm, hoAv strange 
the scene looks! How immense and gloomy 
the trees about them ! Hoav black their 
limbs stretch across the moonlit sky ! How 
chill and Avild the moonlight spreads over 
the undulating SAvard ! What a spectral 
and exaggerated ■ shape all things take in 
her scared and over-excited gaze ! * 

Noav they are approaching the long row 
of noble beeches that line the boundary of 
Mortlake. The ivy-boAvered wall is near 
them, and the screen of gigantic hollies that 
guard the lonely postern through which 
Phebe has shrewdly chosen to direct their 
escape. 

Thank God! they are at it. In her hand 
she holds the key, which shines in the 
moonbeams. 

Hush! Avhat is this? Voices close to the 
door ! Step back behind the holly clump, 
for your lives, quickly! A key grinds in 
the lock; the bolt AA-orks rustily; the door 
opens, and tall Mr. Longcluse enters, with 
every sinister line and shadoAV of his pale 
face marked with a death-like sternness in 
the moonlight. Mr. Levi enters almost 
beside him ; how Avhite his big eyeballs 
gleam, as he steps in under the same cold 
light! Who next? llQvhrolher! 0 God ! 
The mad impulse to throAV her hands about 
his neck, and shriek her wild appeal to his 
manhood, courage, love, and stake all on 
that momentary frenzy ! 

Phebe Chiffinch, breathless, is holding 
her wrist Avith a firm grasp. As they brush 
the holly-leaves in passing, the very sprays 
that touch the dresses of the scared girls 
are stirring. The p.ale group drifts by in 
silence. They haA’^e each something to medi- 
tate on. They are not garrulous. On 
they Avalk, like three shadoAvs. The dis- 
tance widens, the shapes groAV fainter. 


178 


CHECKMATE. 


“ They Ml soon be at the house, ma’am, 
and wild w^ork ihen. You Ml do something 
for poor Vargers? Well, time enough I 
You must not lose heart now, my lady. 
You’re all right, if you keep up for ten 
minutes longer. You don’t feel faint-like? 
Good lawk, ma’am ! rouse up.” 

” I ’m better, Phcbe ; 1 ’m quite well 
again. Come on — come on ! ” 

Carefully, to make as litile noise as pos- 
sible, she turned the key in the lock, and 
they found themselves in a narrow lane 
running by the wall, and under the old 
trees of Mortlak'e. 

“ Which way?” 

“Not toward the Guy of Warwick. 
They ’ll soon be in chase of UwS, and that is 
the way they’ll take. ’T would never do. 
Come away, my lady ; it won’t be long till 
wo meet a cab or something to fetch us 
where you please. Lean on me. 1 wish 
we were away from this w'all. What way 
do you mean to go ? ” 

“ To my uncle David’s house.” 

And having exchanged these words, they 
pursued their way, for a time, in silence. 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 

PURSUIT. 

Arrived at Mortlake, when Mr. Long- 
cluse had discovered wdth certainty the 
flight of Alice Arden, his first thought was 
that Sir Richard had betrayed him. There 
was a momentary paroxysm of insane vio- 
lence, in which, if he could only have dis- 
covered that he was the accomplice of 
Alice’s escape, I think he would have killed 
him. 

It subsided. How could Alice Arden 
have possessed such an influence over this 
man, who seemed to hate her? He sat 
down, and placed his hand to his high, 
pale forehead, his dark eyes glaring on the 
floor, in what seemed an intensity of thought 
and passion. He was seized with a violent 
trembling fit. It lasted only for a few min- 
utes. I sometimes think he loved that girl 
desperately, and would have made her an 
Idolatrous husband. 

He walked twdce or thrice up and down 
the great parlor in which they sat, and 
then, with cold malignity, said to Sir 
Richard : 

“ But for you, she would have married 
me ; but for you, I should have secured her 
now. Consider, how shall I settle with 
you ? ” 

“ Settle how you will — do what you will. 
I sw'ear [and he did sw^ear hard enough, if 
an oath could do it, to satisfy any man] I ’ve 
had nothing to do with it. I’ve never had 
a hint that she meditated leaving this place. 
I can’t conceive liow it w^as done, nor who 
managed it, and I know' no more than you 


do where she is gone.” And he clenched 
his vehement disclaimer with an impreca- 
tion. 

Longcluse was silent for a minute. 

“She has gone, I assume, to David Ar- 
den’s house,” he said, looking dowm. “ There 
is no other house to receive her in town, and 
she does not know that he is away still. 
She know's that Lady May, and other 
friends have gone. She’s there. The will 
makes you, colourably, her guardian. You 
shall claim the custody of her person. We ’ll 
go there.” 

Old Sir Reginald’s will, I may remark, 
had been made years before, when Richard 
was n6t tw'enty - two, and Alice little more 
than a child, and the baronet and his son 
very good friends. 

He stalked out. At the steps w^as his trap, 
which was there to take Levi into town. 

That gentleman, I need not say, he did 
not treat with much ceremony. He mounted, 
and Sir Richard Arden beside him ; and, 
leaving the Jew to shift for himself, he drove 
at a furious pace down the avenue. 

The porter placed there by Longcluse, of 
course, opened the gate instantaneously at 
his call. Outside stood a cab, w'ith a trunk 
on it. An old woman at the lodge-wdndow', 
knocking and clamoring, sought admission. 

“ Let no one in,” said Longcluse, sternly, 
to the man w'ho locked the iron gate on their 
passing out. 

“ Halloo! What brings her here? That’s 
the old housekeeper! ” said Longcluse, pull- 
ing up suddenly. 

It was quite true. A letter, scarcely in- 
telligible, w-ritten by Alice in cautious ter- 
ror, and posted by Phebe, along wMth others 
to people now' from home, on the day of her 
visit to the town close by, had recalled the 
old woman from the North. 

Martha Tansey, who had heard the clang 
of the gate and the sound of w'hecls and 
hoofs, turned about and came to the side of 
the tax -cart, over w'hich Longcluse w'as 
leaning. In the brilliant moonlight, on the 
w'hite road, the branches cast a netw'ork of 
black shadow. A patch of light fell clear 
on the side of the trap, and on Longcluse’s 
hand as he leaned on it. 

“ Here am I, Martha Tansey, has lived 
fifty year wi’ the family, and w'hat for am I 
shut out of Mortlake now ? ” she demanded, 
with stern audacity. 

A sudden change, however, came over her 
countenance, which contracted in horror, 
and her old eyes opened w'ide and' white, as 
she gazed on the back of Longcluso’s hand, 
on which w'as a peculiar star-shaped scar. 
She drew' back wdth a low sound, like the 
growl of a wicked old cat ; it rose gradually 
to such a yell and a cry to God as made 
Richard’s blood run cold, and lifting her 
hand toward her temple, W'averingly, the 
old woman staggered back, and fell in a faint 
on the road. 

Longcluse jumped down and hammered 


CHECKMATE. 


179 


at the window. “ Halloo ! ” he cried to the 
man, “ send one of your people wnth this old 
woman; she \s ill. Let her go in that cab 
to Sir Richard Arden’s house in town ; you 
know it.” 

And he cried to the cabman, “Lift her in, 
will you ? ” 

And having done his devoir thus by the 
old woman, he sprang again into his tax- 
cart, snatched the reins from Sir Richard, 
and drove on at a savage pace for town. 

Longckise threw the reins to Sir Richard 
when they reached David Arden’s house, 
and himself thundered at the door. 

They had searched Mortlake House for 
Alice, and that vain quest had not wasted 
more than half an hour. He rightly con- 
jectured, that if Alice had fled to David Ar- 
den’s house, some of the servants who re- 
.ceived her must be still on the alert. The 
door was opened promptly by an elderly ser- 
vant woman. 

“ Sir Richard Arden is at the door, and 
he wants to know whether his sister, Miss 
Arden, has arrived here from Mortlake.” 

“Yes, sir; she’s up -stairs; but by no 
means well, sir.” 

Longcluse stepped in, to secure a footing, 
and beckoning excitedly to Sir Richard, 
called, “ Come in ; all right. Don’t mind 
the horse; it will take its chance.” He 
walked impatiently to the foot of the stairs, 
and turned again toward the street door. 

At this moment, and before Sir Richard 
had time to come in, there came swarming 
out of David Arden’s study, most unexpect- 
edly, nearly a dozen men, more than half 
of whom were in the garb of gentlemen, and 
some three of them police. Uncle David- 
himself, in deep conversation with two gen- 
tlemen, one of whom was placing in his 
breast-pocket a paper which he had just 
folded, led the way into the hall. 

As they there stood for a minute under 
the lamp, Mr. Longcluse, gazing at him 
sternly from the stair, caught his eye. 

Old David Arden stepped back a little, 
growing pale with a sudden frown. 

“Oh! Mr. Arden?” said Longcluse, ad- 
vancing, as if he had come in search of 
him. 

“That’s enough, sir,” said Mr. Arden, 
extending his hand peremptorily toward 
him; and he added, with a glance at the 
constables, “ There’s the man. That is 
Walter Longcluse.” 

Longcluse glanced over his shoulder, and 
then grimly at the group before him, and 
gathered himself as if for a struggle; the 
next moment he walked forward frankly, 
and asked, “What is the meaning of this?” 

“ A warrant, sir.” said the foremost police- 
man, clutching him by the collar. 

“ No use, sir, making a row,” said the 
next, also catching him by the collar and 
arm. 

“ Mr. Arden, can you explain this?” said 
Mr. Longcluse, coolly. 


“You may as well give in quiet,” said 
the third policeman, producing the warrant. 
“ A warrant for murder. Walter Longcluse, 
alias Yelland' Mace, I arrest you in the 
Queen’s name.” 

. “ There ’s a magistrate here ? Oh, yes ! T 
see. How d’ye do, Mr. Harman? My name 
is Longcluse, as you know. Mays, or any 
other you ’ll not insult me by applying 
to me, if you please. Of course this is ob- 
vious and utter trumpery. Are there infor- 
mations, or what the devil is it?” 

“ They have just been sworn before me, 
sir.” answered the magistrate, who was a 
little man, with a wave of the hand and his 
head high. 

“Well, really! don’t you see the ab- 
surdity? Upon my soul! It is really too 
ridiculous! You won’t inconvenience me, 
of course, unnecessarily. My own recogni- 
zance, I suppose, will do?” 

“ Can’t entertain your application; quite 
out of the question,” said his worship, with 
his hands in his pockets, rising slightly on 
his toes and descending on his heels, as he 
.delivered this sentence with a stoical shake 
of his head. 

“ You ’ll send for my attorney, of course? 
I’m not to be humbugged, you know.” 

“I must tell you, Mr. Longcluse, I can’t 
listen to such language,” observed Mr. Har- 
man, sublimely. 

“ If you have informations, they are the 
dreams of a madman. I don’t blame any 
one here. I say, policeman, you need not 
hold on me quite so hard. I only say, joke 
or earnest, I can’t make head or tail of it; 
and there ’s not a man in London who 
■ won’t be shocked to hear how I’ve been 
treated. Once more, Mr. Harman, I tender 
bail, any amount. It’s too ridiculous! You 
can’t really have a difficulty.” 

“ The informations are very strong, sir, and 
the offence, you know as well as I do, Mr. 
Longcluse, is not bailable.” 

Mr. Longcluse shrugged, and laughed 
gently. 

“I m^ have a cab, or something? My 
trap’s at the door. It ’s not solemn enough, 
eh, Mr. Harman ? Will you tell one of your 
fellows to pick up a cab? Perhaps, Mr. Ar- 
den, you ’ll allow me a chair to sit down 
upon ? ” 

“You can sit in the study, if you please,” 
said David Arden. 

And Longcluse entered the room, with the 
police about him, while the servant went to 
look for a cab. 

Sir Richard Arden, you may be sure, was 
not there. He saw that something was 
wrong, and he had got away to his own 
house. On arriving there, he sent to make 
inquiry, cautiously, at his uncle’s, and thus 
learned the truth. 

Standing at the window, he saw his mes- 
senger return, let him in himself, and then 
considered, as well as a man in so critical 
and terrifying a situation can, the wisest 


180 


CHECKMATE. 


course for him to adopt. The simple one of 
flight he ultimately resolved upon. He knew 
that Longcluse had still two executions 
against him, on which, at any moment, lie 
}night arrest him. lie knew that he might 
launch at him, at any moment', the thunder- 
bolt which would blast him. He must wait, 
however, until the morning had confirmed 
the news ; that uncertain, he dared not act. 

With a cold and fearless bearing, Long- 
cluse had by this time entered tlie dreadful 
door of a prison. His attorney was with 
liim nearly the entire night. 

David Arden, as he promised, had dictated 
to him in outline the awful case he had 
amassed against his client. 

“ I don’t want any man taken by surprise 
or at disadvantage ; I simply wish for truth,” 
said he. 

A copy of the written statement of Paul 
Davies, whatever it was worth, duly wit- 
nessed, was already in his hands ; the sworn 
depositions of the same person, made in his 
last illness, were also there. There were 
also the sworn depositions of Yanboeren, 
who had, after all, recovered speech and re- 
collection ; and a deposition, besides, very 
unexpected, of old Martha Tansey, who 
swore distinctly to the scar, a very peculiar 
mark indeed, on the back of his left hand. 
This the old woman had recognized with 
horror, at a moment so similar, as the scar, 
long forgotten, which she had for a terrible 
moment seen on the hand of Ye! land Mace, 
as he clutched the rail of the gig, while en- 
gaged in the murder. 

Other surviving witnesses had also turned 
up, who had deposed when the murder of 
Harry Arden was a recent event. The 
whole case was, in the eyes of the attorney, 
a very anxious one. Mr. Longcluse’s coun- 
sel was called up, like a physician whose 
patient is in extremis, at dead of night, and 
had a talk with the attorney, and kept his 
notes to ponder over. 

As early as prison rules would permit, he 
was with Mr. Longcluse, where th^ attorney 
awaited him. 

Mr. Blinkinsop looked very gloomy. 

“ Do you despair?” asked Mr. Longcluse, 
sharply, after a long disquisition. 

“ Let me ask you one question, Mr. 
Longcluse. You have, before I ask it, I 
assume, implicit confidence in us ; am I 
right?'” 

“ Certainly — implicit.” 

“ If, y^ou are innocent, we might venture 
on a line of defence which may possibly 
break down the case for the Crown. If you 
are guilty, that line would be fatal.” lie 
hesitated, and looked at Mr. Longcluse. 

“ I know such a question has been asked 
in like circumstances, and I have no hesita- 
tion in telling you that I am not innocent. 
Assume my guilt.” 

The attorney, who had been drumming a 
little tattoo on the table, watched Longcluse 
earnestly as he spoke, suspending his tune. 


now lowered his eyes to the table, and re- 
sumed his drumming, slowly, with a very 
dismal countenance. lie had been talking 
over the chances with this eminent counsel, 
Mr. Blinkinsop, Q. C., and he knew what his 
opinion would now be. 

“One effect of a judgment in this case is 
forfeiture? ” inquired Mr. Longcluse. 

“ Yes,” answered counsel. 

“ Everything goes to the Crown, eh?” 

“ Yes ; clearly.” 

“Well, I have neither wife noT children. 
I need not care ; but suppose 1 make my 
will now; that’s a good will, ain’t it, be- 
tween this and judgment, if things should 
go wrong ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Blinkinsop. 

“And noAV, doctor, don’t -be afraid; tell 
me truly, shall I said Mr. Longcluse, 

leaning back, and looking darkly and stead- 
ily in his face. 

“ It is a nasty case.” 

“ Don’t be afraid, I say. I should like to 
knoAV, are the chauces two to one against 
me? ” 

“I’m afraid they are.” 

“ Ten to one? Pray, say what you think.” 

“ Well, I think so.” 

Mr. Longcluse grew paler. They were 
all three silent. After about a minute, he 
said, in a very low tone: 

“ You don’t think I have a chance ? Don’t 
mislead me.” 

It is very gloomy.” 

Mr. Longcluse pressed his hand to his 
mouth. There was a silence. Perhaps he 
Avished to hide some nervous movement there. 
He stood up, walked about a little, and then 
stood by Mr. Blinkinsop’a. chair, with his 
fingers on the back of it. 

“ We must make a great fight of this,” 
said Mr. Longcluse, suddenly. “ We ’ll fight 
it hard ; we must win it. We shall Avin it, 
by !” 

And after a short pause, he added, gently : 

“That Avill do. I think I’ll rest uoav ; 
more, perhaps, another time. Good-by.” 

As they left the room, he signed to the at- 
torney to stay. 

“I have something for you — a word or 
two.” 

The attorney turned back, and they re- 
mained closeted for a time. 


CONCLUSION. 

Sir Ricii-ard Arden had learned how 
matters were with Mr. Longcluse. He hesi- 
tated. Flight might provoke action of the 
kind for which there seemed no longer a mo- 
tive. 

In an agony of dubitation, as the day Avore 
on, he was interrupted. Mr. Ilooke, Mr. 
Longcluse’s attorney, had called. There 
was no good in shirking a meeting. He was 
shown in. 


CHECKMATE. 


181 


“ This is for you, Sir Richard,” said Mr. 
Rooke, presenting a large letter. “ Mr. 
Longcluse wrote it about three nours ago, 
and requested me to place it in your hand, 
as I now do.” 

“ It is not any legal paper — ” began Sir 
Richard. 

“ I have n’t an idea,” answered he. “lie 
gave it to me thus. I had some things to do 
for him afterwards, and a call to make, at 
his desire, at Mr. David Arden’s. When I 
got home, I was sent for again. I suppose 
you heard the news ? ” 

“ No ; what is it ? ” 

“ Oh, dear ! really? They have heard it 
some time at Mr. Arden’s. You did n’t hear 
about Mr. Longcluse? ” 

“ No, nothing, excepting what we all know 
— his arrest.” 

The attorney’s countenance darkened, and 
he said, as low as he would have given a 
message in church : 

“Oh, poor gentleman! he died to-day. 
Some kind of fit, I believe ; he ’s gone ! ” 

Then IMr. Rooke went into particulars, so 
far as he knew them, and mentioned that the 
coroner’s inquest w^ould be held that after- 
noon ; and so he departed. 

Unmixed satisfaction accompanied the 
hearing of this news in Sir Richard’s mind. 
But with reflection came the terrifying 
question, “ Has Levi got hold of that in- 
strument of torture and ruin — the forged 
signature ? ” 

In this new horror he saw the envelope 
which Rooke had handed to him, upon the 
table. lie opened it, and saw the forged 
deed. Written across it, - in Longcluse’s 
hand, were the words — 

“ Paid by W. Longcluse before due. 

“ W. Longcluse.” 

That day’s date was added. 

So the evidence of his guilt was no longer 
in the hands of a stranger, and Sir Richard 
Arden was saved. 

David Arden had already received, under 
like circumstances and by the same hand, 
two papers of immense importance. 

The first, written in Rooke’s hand and 
duly witnessed, was a very short will, 
signed by the testator, Walter Longcluse, 
and leaving his enormous wealth absolutely 
to David Arden. 

'I'he second was a letter which attached a 
trust to this bequest. The letter said : 

“lam the son of Edwin Raikes, your cousin. He bad 
cast me off for my vices, when I committed the crime, 
not intended to have amounted to murder. It was Ilan y 
Arden’s determined resistance and my danger that cost 
him his life. I did kill Lebas. I could not help it. He 
was a fool, and might have ruined me ; and that villain, 
Vanboeren, has spoken truth for once. 

“I meant to set up the Arden family in my person. I 
sliould have taken the name. My father relented on his 
death-bed, and left me his money. I went to ^ew York, 
and received it. I made a new start in life. On the 
Bourse in Paris, and in Vienna. I made a fortune by specu- 
lation : I improved it in London. You fake it all b^ my 
will. Do with half the interest as yon [dease. during 
your lifetime. The other half pay to Mi.ss Alice Arden, 


and the entire capital you are to secure to her on your 
death. 

“ I had taken assignments of all the mortgages affect- 
ing the Arden estates. They must go to Miss Arden, and 
be secured unalienably to her. 

“ My life lias been arduous and direful. I’hat miserable 
crime hung over me, and its dangers imiieded mo at every 
turn. 

“ You have played the game well, but with all the odds 
of the position in your favor. I am tired, beaten. The 
match is over, and you may now rise and say Checkmate. 

“Walteh Longcluse.” 


That Longcluse had committed suicide, 
of course I can have no doubt. It must 
have been effected by some unusually subtle 
poison. The post-mortem examination failed 
to discover its presence. But there was 
found in his de^ a curious paper in French, 
published about five hionths before, upon 
certain vegetable poisons, wdiose presence 
in the system no chemical test detects, and 
no external trace records. This paper was 
noted here and there on tlie margin, and 
had been obviously cnrefully read. Any 
of these tinctures he could without much 
trouble have procured from Paris. But no 
distinct light was ever thrown upon this 
inquiry. 

In a small and lonely house, tenanted by 
Longcluse, in the then less crowded region 
of Richmond, were found proofs, no longer 
needed, of Longcluse’s identity, both with 
the horseman who had met Paul Davies on 
Hampstead Heath, and the person who 
crossed the Channel from Southampton with 
David Arden, and afterward met him in 
the streets of Paris, as we have seen. 
There he had been watching his movements, 
and traced him, with dreadful suspicion, to 
the house of Vanboeren. The turn of a 
die had determined the fate of David Ar- 
den that night. Longcluse had afterward 
watched and seized an opportunity of en- 
tering Vanboeren’s house. He knew that 
the baron expected the return of his mes- 
senger, rang the bell, and was admitted. 
The old servant had gone to her bed, and 
was far away in that vast house. 

Longcluse would have stabbed him, but 
the baron recognized him, and sprang back 
wdth a yell. 

Instantly Longcluse had used his re- 
volver; but before he could make assurance 
doubly sure, his quick ear detected a step 
outside. 

He then made his exit through a window 
into a deserted lane at the side of the house, 
and had not lost a moment in commencing 
his flight. 

AVith respect to the murder of Lebas, the 
letter of Longcluse pretty nearly explains 
it. That unlucky Frenchman had at- 
tended him through his recovery under the 
hands of Vanboeren ; and Longcluse feared 
to trust, as it now might turn out, his life 
in his giddy keeping. Of course Lebas had 
no idea of the nature of his crime, or that 
in England was the scene of its perpetra- 
tion. Longcluse had made up his mind 


182 


CHECKMATE. 


promptly on the'ni^ht of the billiard-match 
played in the Saloon Tavern. When every 
eye was fixed upon the balls, he and Lebas 
met. as they had ultimately agreed, in the 
smoking-room. A momentary meeting it 
was to have been. The dagger which he 
placed in his keeping Longcluse plunged 
into his heart. In the stream of blood that 
instantaneously tlowed from the wound, 
Longcluse steppod, and made one distinct 
impression of his boot-sole on tile boards. 
A tracing of this Paul Davies had made, 
and had got the signatures of two or three 
respec*^able Londoners attesting its accu- 
racy, he affecting, while he did so, to be a 
member of the detective police, from which 
body, for a piece of ot’er-cleverness, he had 
been, only a few weeks before, dismissed. 
Having made his tracing, he obliterated the 
blood-mark. 

The opportunity of distinguishing him- 
self at his old craft to the prejudice of the 
force, whom he would have liked to mor- 
tify, while earning, perhaps, his own resto- 
ration, was his first object. The delicacy 
of the shape of the boot struck him next. 
He then remembered having seen Long- 
cluse — and bis was the only eye that ob- 
served -him — pass swiftly from the passage 
leading to the smoking-room at the begin- 
ning of the game. His mind had now 
matter to work upon ; and hence his visit 
to Bolton Street to secure possession of the 
boot, which he did by an audacious ruse. 

His subsequent interview with Mr. Long- 
cluse, in presence of David Arden, was sim- 
ply a concerted piece Of acting, on which 
Longcluse, when he had made Ins terms 
with Davies, insisted, as a security against 
the re-opening of the extortion. 

Nothing will induce Alice to accept one 
farthing of this magnificent legacy. Se- 
cretly, uncle David is resolved to make it 
up to her from his own wealth, which is 
very great. 

Richard Arden’s story is not known to 
any living person but the Jew Levi, and 
vaguely to his sister, in whose mind it re- 
mains as something horrible, but never 
approached. 

Levi keeps the secret for reasons more 
cogent than charitable. First he kept it 
to himself as a future instrument of profit. 
But on his insinuating something that 
promised such relations to Sir Richard, 
the young gentleman met it with so bold a 
front, with fury so unaffected, and with 
threats so alarming, founded upon a trifling 
matter of which the Jew had never sus- 
pected his knowledge, that Mr. Levi has not 
ventured either to “utilize” his knowledge 
in a profitable way, or afterward to circulate 


the story for the solace of his i^jalicc. They 
seem, in Mr. Rooke’s phrase, to have turned 
their backs on one another ; and as some 
years have passed, and lapse of time does 
not improve the case of a person in Mr. 
Levi’s position, we may safely assume that 
he will never dare to circulate any definite 
stories to Sir Richard’s prejudice. A suffi- 
cient motive, indeed, for doing so exists no 
longer, for Sir Richard, who had lived an • 
unsettled life, travelling the Continent, 
and still playing at foreign tables when he 
could afford it, died suddenly at Florence 
in the autumn of ’69. 

Vivian Darnley has been in “the House” 
now nearly four years. Uncle David is 
very proud of him; and more impartial 
people think that he will, at last, take an 
honorable place in that assembly. His last 
speech has been spoken of everywhere with 
applause. David Arden’s immensely in- 
creased wealth enables him to entertain 
very magnificent plans for this young man. 
He intends that he shall take the name of 
Arden, and earn the transmission of the 
title, or the distinction of a greater one. 

A year ago he married Alice Arden, and 
no two people can be happier. 

Lady May, although her girlish ways 
have not forsaken her, has no present 
thoughts of making any man happy. She 
had a great cry ,all to herself when Sir 
Richard died, and she still believes that he 
never meant one woi-d he said of her, and 
that if the truth' were known, although 
after that day she never spoke to him more, 
that he had never really cared for more than 
one woman on, earth. It was all spite of 
that odious Lady Wynderhroke ! 

Alice has never seen Mortlake after the 
night of her flight from its walls. 

Of the two old servants, Crozier and Mar- 
tha Tansey, whose acquaintance we made, 
in that suburban seat of the Ardens, neither, 
I am glad to say, has died since. 

Phebe Chiffinch, I am glad to say, was 
jilted by her uninteresting lover, who little 
knew what a fortune he was slighting. His 
desertion does not seem to have broken her 
heart, or at all affected her spirits. The 
gratitude of Alice Arden has established 
her in the prosperous little Yorkshire town, 
the steep roofs, chimneys, and church-tower 
of which are visible from the windows of 
Arden Court. She is the energetic and 
popular proprietress of the “Cat and Fid- 
dle,” to which thriving inn, at a nominal 
rent, a valuable farm is attached. A for- 
tune of two thousand pounds from the same 
grateful friend awaits her marriage, which 
can’t be far off, with the handsome son of 
rich farmer Shackleton. 


THE END, 


I 


THE BOOK OF THE DAY. 

CRUMBS SWEPT UP. 

BY ' 

REV. T. DE WITT TALMAGE, 

PASTOR OF THE BROOKLYN FREE TABERNACLE. 

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